


Down dust and pine cone tracks

by whimsicule



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Future Fic, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicule/pseuds/whimsicule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco spends his retirement running away until he can't anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I am still trying to get over this. Don't think I ever will. Plus, I'm a sucker for retirement fics. Title is taken from Ben Howard's song "Old Pine".
> 
> Disclaimer: This is all fiction. I don't own anything or anyone. If I did, I'd drag Mario back to Dortmund by his ears.

 

 

“Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering.” 

  
―  **Paulo Coelho, _By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept_**

 

 

 ***

 

His eyes wander across the room. It’s discreetly lit in soft, warm tones, illuminating the mostly cream-coloured decorations and dresses, dark suits of approximately half the guests darks drops of ink in between the fluttering of chiffon. People are talking and the voices rise as high as the ceiling until they form one unintelligible mass that hums in his chest and makes his ears go practically deaf. The cold sparkling wine is a nice remedy for the general unease he feels for being amidst this many people after such a long time, but his glass is empty far too quickly and he thinks it’s inappropriate to ask for another already. He’d rather be slightly uncomfortable than drunk off his ass before lunch.

 

Adjusting his tie, too tight around his neck after months of sweatshirts and t-shirts, he leans back against the bar, hopefully blending in instead of standing out and winces slightly as his elbow lands in a wet patch. He silently hopes that it’s just water and does nothing else about it. Instead he glances up at the ceiling, watches reflections dance without coordination and eventually watches the crowd do very much the same. He can pick out a few bridesmaids in their softly draped, lilac dresses, hovering close together like lionesses ready to pounce on any male prey that saunters too close and okay – perhaps he is being a little harsh in his observations; they might be very nice girls and simply unintentionally aggressive flirters.

The bride is somewhere in there too, tufts of white tulle whirling into his sight occasionally. He is sure Kevin took lessons, because he sure as hell hadn’t been remotely able to dance like that back in the day.

 

The music picks up, pumping more energy into the people dancing and apparently also into the ones talking; he can barely hear his own thoughts. At least that is why he deems it justifiable to flinch when suddenly a solid hand plants itself on his shoulder in a bid for attention. His head turns around fast enough to give him whiplash.

 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Mats says with a smile that almost splits his face, still unfairly handsome and barely ages. “Didn’t think you’d make it,” he adds before reaching out to pull him into a bone-cracking hug.

 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he retorts after getting released. “Not that I though he’d ever get anyone to marry him.”

 

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Mats replies with a wink and steps back an inch to make room for Cathy, who leans forward to kiss him on the cheek.

 

“I’m glad you made it, Marco,” she tells him with a bright smile and settles back against Mats’ side. “You look well.”

 

Marco shrugs, because he really doesn’t. He’s still jetlagged, still missing a good day’s worth of sleep, and his suit is probably rather unfashionably wrinkled. He hadn’t made the time to shave either, preferring a fair bit of stubble to cover his face in a really pathetic attempt to conjure up any kind of protective layer between him and everyone else.

 

“So do you,” he says, not because it’s polite but true. Cathy looks a million times better than when he’d seen her last. Having two kids has made her face fuller, her features softer – plus Marco doesn’t fear getting stabbed by her knees anymore. “That colour really suits you,” he continues, motioning to her dress.

 

Cathy beams and raises an eyebrow at her husband. “See, I told you fuchsia was better than mauve,” and Mats indulges her with a smile before she struts off to get a glass of something Marco doesn’t quite catch. Perhaps the new in-drink of the season.

 

He turns back to Mats. “How are you, man? Not looking bad yourself.”

 

“Oh, you know,” he says. “Enjoying the life as a young retiree and stay-at-home dad. I couldn’t have parted from afternoon naps.”

 

“I can imagine.”

 

“And you? How was your flight? And how long are you staying?”

 

“The flight was too long,” Marco answers. “And I’m planning on staying a few days. The I have to be off.”

 

Mats expression is wistful. Glasses clink in the background. “Still got ants up your ass, huh?”

  
“Now that is a mental image I didn’t need,” Marco grimaces. “You don’t say that lightly if you’ve had actual ants in places you’ve never wanted anything to crawl, ever.” He still has nightmares sometimes.

 

“Please tell me there are pictures.”

 

Marco shakes his head. “Nah, sorry. I didn’t take any.”

 

“Did someone else take some?”

 

He averts Mats’ glance, knowing full well what he’s hinting at. Cathy and her drink are nowhere in sight and suddenly Marco wishes that some people would just come up and talk to them, or Mats, instead of having this one-on-one time. “There wasn’t anyone to take pictures,” he deadpans, hoping to quench that branch of conversation. He doesn’t add that there hasn’t been anyone like that in a long time. He still hasn’t… can’t bring himself to –

 

“Well, like my mother always used to say,” Mats interrupts his thoughts, snaps him back into his own body, “other mothers have beautiful daughters too.” He grins. “Or sons. You know.”

 

Marco huffs out a dry laugh and raises a brow at Mats, not gifting him with a reply of any other sort. Turns out, he doesn’t get the opportunity to say something anyway. Cathy appears in his line of view, armed with a drink in an alarming shade of pink, closely followed by –

 

“Look who I ran into,” she calls out to them over the music before sliding her arm through Mats’. Schmelle and Jenny join them, the latter looking like she should be in a maternity ward rather than wrapped in a few hundred Euros worth of silk. But she looks radiant as she kisses his cheek and Schmelle is radiating the same sort of positive energy he’s always had about him and from then on, it’s comfortable and it feels natural, almost easy. Marco allows himself to let out a silent breath and relax his shoulders, listening in on the stories the others exchange about various stages of pregnancies and children teething, and he doesn’t mind listening, but it’s not like he’s got something to contribute to that.

 

He orders his second glass of wine, lets the conversation wash around him and answers the occasional question they throw his way without delving too deep, giving too much away, more of a reflex than intentionally, a habit burned deep into his mind after years of media scrutiny and press conferences. Schmelle asks where he’s been (Australia, mostly) and Jenny asks how it’s been (hot, mainly) and Cathy asks where he’s going to go now (to which he doesn’t have an answer; not yet, at least). They don’t look at him with pity – which is kind since in comparison, they’ve got it figured out – because they still are his friends and they understand, their eyes tell him that, but really, they still don’t _understand_.

 

And Marco doesn’t blame them. But he wonders if he should’ve stayed away. Because it’s inevitable, it’s so fucking inevitable that he should have placed a bet on it. This is Kevin’s wedding after all; there’s Roman with a bit more weight around his middle and a couple of grey streaks in his still impressively full hair, and Nuri with his usual boyish smile, and Neven with glasses and a new haircut that makes him look like a scholar, and Kloppo smiling with all his teeth who pulls Marco into a hug that takes him back fifteen years and makes his chest feel inexplicably tight.

 

Marco figures it is a small mercy that he sees Felix first.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

_Marco never had a big epiphany. There had been no shock, no real crisis, more of a gradual descent into adolescence when he met the guy who’d become his first boyfriend. It hadn’t been an anxiety-fuelled battle either. They’d had the same friends, gone out and after a couple of drinks, he’d given his first handjob in the back alley of some pub in Dortmund. Nobody besides friends and family had known who he was back then and dreams of become a professional football player had been there, but vague at best. He’d been underage and the guy, Lukas, not much older._

_He hadn’t brought Lukas home, never introduced him to his parents as anything but a friend; not because he’d been ashamed, but because it never had the potential to become anything more. They had gone out for a couple of weeks, (or to be fair, perhaps fooled around was a more accurate description) shared the first fumbling, partially embarrassing sexual experiences and parted again when Marco finished school and left Dortmund to try his luck as a footballer._

_Only then did Marco realise that he might have a problem._

***

 

 

Felix, much like Fabian, had never become the footballer his older brother was. He’d never lacked talent, but some bad timing and even worse luck had resulted in a series of injuries just after making his debut for Dortmund’s first team in his late teens and his career as a professional had been over before it had actually taken off. Marco had been there to see some of the subsequent battle in the Götze family, but he’d never seen the resolve of it, for various reasons. He has no idea what has happened to Felix ever since, but he looks cheerful enough, Marco thinks, yet he can’t shake the oddness of it all, shaking hands and exchanging a few shallow pleasantries, because he never knew how much Felix knew. But Felix doesn’t act like anything is odd at all, instead tells Marco about work, only vaguely since he’d followed his fathers footsteps and Marco has no expertise on that subject, about getting engaged and possibly moving to London.

 

Marco doesn’t know how he feels about Felix so easily sharing all that with him. It confronts him with something he’d rather push to the back of his mind, if not out entirely. He’s been pushing and running for a fair while, but now that he is back, he finds himself face to face with everything he’d so desperately avoided for the past couple of years. When he sees Mario making his way through the still dancing and animatedly chatting crowd towards them, he becomes unable to hear a single word Felix is saying, blood starting to rush in his ears as anxiety washes over him without mercy. He empties his wine, hoping in vain that it might calm him down.

 

Mario’s smile is there, visible and seemingly at ease, but Marco could probably go another decade before he’d forget how to read his expressions, before he’d miss that nervous twitch around to corners of his mouth, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as Mario swallows whatever clogs his throat.

 

“Hey,” he says casually and holds out a hand.

 

Marco thinks he wants to laugh. “Hey,” he replies and shakes it. It takes a lot of willpower to not shake his head in a disbelieving smile. “How are you?”

 

“Good.” Mario’s reply is as stiff as his handshake and the neatly pressed revers of his suit jacket. “And you? Kevin says you’ve been abroad.”

 

“Yeah. Trying to make retirement less boring.” He puts his hands into the pockets of his trousers to stop himself from ordering yet another glass of wine. The last thing he needs is to be tipsy around Mario. “I’m not really up to date on what you’ve been doing, sorry.”

 

Mario waves it off. Marco notices out of the corner of his eye that Felix is no longer standing with them and he blinks a couple of times to stop his vision from zeroing in on Mario. “We’ve all been busy,” he says and that right there shows how much time has passed, especially for them, between them. If Marco tries he can remember a time when they could never be too busy to text or call or keep in touch in any way possible. Although he’s not sure if he wants to.

 

Now he finds himself looking but not really looking at Mario, at loss as to what to talk to him about, wondering if he even wants to, if he _should_ , regretting coming here in the first place which is unfair on so many levels, because Kevin was his friend first. He tells himself to get a grip as his eyes flicker across the room, tension almost tangible between them. Eventually, Mario clears his throat.

 

“I meant to call you,” he says quietly and for a second time this day, Marco almost dislocates his neck.

 

He guesses that for a moment, the surprise is clearly visible on his face, but he’s gotten better at schooling his expression. Marco keeps his voice even as he says, “When? Ten years ago? Five? Any time in between?” If Mario notices the sharp undertone, well – he can suck it, as immature as that sounds.

 

Mario has the decency to at least look a tiny bit guilty. “I didn’t know if you’d want me to.”

 

“You didn’t try to find out,” Marco deadpans.

 

He’s almost forty years old. He’s moved on, matured and whatever the hell people do when they need a change, when they need _to_ change. Mario has grown up a lot as well, Marco knows that much and so he figures they are both above such petty arguments, but it’s not his duty to forgive simply because a lot has happened since.

 

Mario sighs. “I know,” he says, sounding defeated. “I wasn’t a very good friend then. Not sure if I’m a better one these days. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I really am.”

 

“Noted.”

 

Marco is pretty sure Mario hoped for more, but he’s not getting it. Apologising is the least thing he could’ve done and Marco sure as hell isn’t going to pat him on the back for showing that he might be a decent human being after all. Mario’s shoulders sag a little, but the tension clears away somewhat and Marco finds it easier to breathe.

 

“Do you want to grab a drink?” Mario asks him. “Catch up?”

 

He doesn’t really have a good reason to say no.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

_Ahlen was a good step for him. Marco knew that not everyone agreed, that especially his parents thought it might be smarter to continue school (they were always supportive, but they sure had their doubts), but he didn’t want to rot away on the bench of the second team of a club that didn’t want him. He always knew it would be a challenge, in more ways than one. He grew as a player and as a person, but he quickly realised that some parts that made up who he was didn’t have space in this new life he so badly wanted to live._

_The guys on his team talked about girls, girlfriends and sex. They didn’t pressure Marco to join in, but they asked him if he had a girlfriend back home. He told them no. He didn’t mention that he’d had a boyfriend instead._

_It didn’t feel like lying at the time._

***

 

 

 

“Australia,” Mario echoes. “That sounds exciting. How long?”

 

They’re sitting outside. It’s still quite cool despite the sun, but it already starts to smell like summer. The music is very much audible, but pleasantly muffled by the large French doors and Marco is nursing a Gin and Tonic, taking a few small sips before setting the glass back down onto the table.

 

“Five months. Started in Brisbane, then down the Gold Coast. Stopped in Melbourne and Sydney and stayed in Adelaide for two months. Then across the Outback to Perth.”

 

Mario raises his eyebrows at that. “Damn. Across the Outback? Very brave, especially considering your skin tone.”

 

Marco barks out a surprised laugh. “Oh, fuck off.”

 

“I’m just kidding. Where else did you go? You retired and then just… dropped off the face of the earth.”

 

The thing is, Marco doesn’t have to tell Mario anything anymore. He could easily tell him that he’d gone here and there, far away and not worth mentioning and part of him wants to play it all down, because it seems like he’s been running when he hasn’t, at least not really. It had all started because he had needed to get away, for good, but he stayed away because he wanted to; because for the first time in his life, he didn’t care about anyone else. Marco still doesn’t care. And he shouldn’t care what it might sound like in Mario’s head. He’s not running.  

 

“Canada. People there don’t really care about football, so it’d seemed like a good idea,” he says with a shrug, aware of Mario’s eyes on him as he stares into his rapidly diminishing drink. “East to West Coast. Brazil after that, because I wanted to see something other than the inside of football stadiums.” He sees Mario smirk out of the corner of his eye and mentally scolds himself for mentioning Brazil. He downs his drink to flush down whatever it is that’s suddenly clogging his throat. “I did the Inca trail, went home for Christmas and then flew east.”

 

“Jesus,” Mario whistles. “How many air miles do you have?”

 

“I lost track.”

 

“I don’t doubt it. What now? Any corner of the world left that you haven’t seen?”

 

Marco taps his fingertips against the ridge of his glass, watching as perspiration curls around his index finger before lifting his head to glance over at Mario, absentmindedly drinking him in; immaculately tailored suit and dark shirt, top button undone, softly tanned. His hair is back to its natural colour, not dipped in blonde, and he’s gotten rid of his earrings. He looks good, Marco has to acknowledge. Even the lines on his face suit him.

 

“I’ve been thinking about touring Europe. That would put my mum at ease.”

 

“Well,” Mario says, tugging on the sleeves of his jacket, grabbing his glass and putting it down straight away, “if you’re ever in Italy, you should drop by.”

 

Marco’s lips form a soundless _oh_. Now he’s relieved he’s not holding a drink anymore, because he’s pretty sure he would have dropped it this instant. He swallows thickly, then tries a casual smile.

 

“Are you still playing for Juventus?” he asks, because that’s the last he remembers before tossing his phone and getting on a plane.

 

Mario looks at him with surprise. “Uh, no. I retired a while ago. Few months after you did, actually. My knee kind of… gave up.” He brushes a hand along his leg in practised fashion, as if the pain were still present, soothing undoubtedly still strong muscles hidden beneath a layer of smooth cotton.

 

This is something Marco remembers although he’d rather not; Mario’s proneness to injuries, first his battle with his back, then his Achilles heel, then his knee. He’d always come back better than before and it feels wrong that he hadn’t been allowed to choose when to quit. It feels wrong that he hadn’t known until now.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. I had a good run.”

 

“No doubt about that,” Marco says more to himself than to Mario. Absentmindedly, he wonders if perhaps they should go back inside and catch up with everyone else, and he does also wonder if they’re being left alone on purpose. He wouldn’t put it past the guys. “So you stayed in Turin after?”

 

“Yeah,” Mario replies. “Didn’t have a reason not to.”

 

Marco knows he shouldn’t read anything into this. He tells himself he wouldn’t know what to read into it anyway.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_After Lukas, there was Tobi. The brother of a friend’s friend, or something like that. He was a couple of years older, not interested in football at all. He studied mechanical engineering, was into tennis and clubbing and Martin Scorcese films. They went out together, made out in the middle of the dance floor of a club where he saw more bare chests than covered ones. It was different, it was exciting and at first, it was easy._

_He introduced Tobi to his family and started thinking about moving in together. At the same time, his career lifted off, with Bundesliga clubs starting to pay attention to him, sending first offers to his agent. He spent most of his time at practice, or on the pitch and if he didn’t play football, he met his boyfriend (which continued to sound entirely strange when he said it out loud) for lunch or dinner._

_There was no doubt that his teammates were catching on. If they were bothered by it, they didn’t say a word and for a while it had been a relief._

_After a year, it became a burden._

_Tobi didn’t agree with his priorities, didn’t like that Marco’s focus was football, didn’t understand why he worked so hard for something that made him hide part of who he was. They threw words at each other like sacrifice and compromise and career (never love) and it ended in a rather spectacular fashion when Marco told him to go fuck himself and signed for Borussia Mönchengladbach._

***

 

 

 

He excuses himself after a couple of hours, wishing the newly betrothed all the best, because his jetlag is catching up to him and Marco soon feels like he is going to pass out on the spot. There are more handshakes, kisses and hugs and he leaves, a paper napkin with Mario’s number scribbled on it in a haste securely tucked into the pocket of his suit jacket.

 

Marco sleeps for fourteen hours straight, back in his old room that his mother finally turned into a decent guest room, no more football posters and old jerseys and trophies lining the walls and shelves. Only his first Champions League medal has survived the clean up, framed and on display above the antique chest of drawers. He wakes up in the very early hours of the morning. It’s still dark outside when he walks out onto the balcony and he shivers, pulls his coat tighter around his body and settles onto a wooden deckchair.

 

He leans back and takes out a cigarette from the packet he’s been carrying around for at least four months. Lighting it, he remembers the instant the smoke reaches his lungs that he finds it absolutely disgusting. Marco’s not sure why he does it anyway. He thinks it’s because it gives him an excuse to get away and quiet down for a couple of moments. Perhaps he does it because he was never allowed to before.

 

Marco finishes it, gets out his phone and, without much thought, books a flight out to Athens for the following day before he can do something as stupid as calling Mario. Naturally, his mother isn’t happy he is leaving again so soon, and his father seems disappointed, but he’s got a certain look in his eyes that gives Marco the impression he knows exactly what’s going on.

 

He’s not big news anymore, so there’s no hassle at the airport, just a few hushed murmurs and sideway glances, but Marco still lets out a relieved breath when he sits down in business class and puts his headphones on. He closes his eyes and, with practised ease, falls asleep within seconds.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_The first couple of months at Mönchengladbach weren’t easy, but Marco didn’t expect them to be. Physically, there was a lot to catch up on. He’d always been a skinny and scrawny kid, so he went out of his ways to gain weight, bulk up, change his game and seek one-on-one confrontations on the pitch instead of utilising his speed. He adapted and adjusted and it made it all worth it._

_However, playing for a Bundesliga side, he knew he couldn’t be as easy-going with regards to his personal life anymore. He knew that a professional football player who wanted nothing more than to become part of the National Team wasn’t supposed to be gay._

_He missed Tobi, missed being in love, in a relationship, but most of all he missed not caring. Marco had worked too hard to risk anything and he guessed he was too young to wake up and go to bed with worry settled in the pit of his stomach, but he did worry. Almost constantly._

_Caro was a blessing, really. They’d known each other for years, she’d known both Lukas and Tobi, he trusted her. And she didn’t mind._

_So, rather unexpectedly, Marco found himself with a girlfriend._

***

 

 

Marco rents a car and travels south after three days in the Greek capital to meet up with a few guys he’d met in Cambodia a year ago and if they’d known who he was back then, they hadn’t made a big deal out of it. In fact, they haven’t mentioned anything up until now, and it’s not like Marco has a career to lose if else were the case. They set up camp near the coast, close enough to be lulled to sleep by the sound of waves crushing against the shore and it’s rather similar to their time in Koh Kong, sleeping on the beach, sitting around campfires, with other backpackers, far away from civilisation.

 

Marco had started something (and there really is no other definition) with one of them, casual and careless, and it’s obvious that Sean doesn’t mind picking up where they’d left off. Yet Marco finds himself pulling away after his t-shirt sails down onto the sand.

 

“So going home wasn’t a good idea?” Sean asks, sliding a hand over tense shoulders that give Marco away.

 

“It was good,” Marco replies. “Just… unexpected.”

 

Sean doesn’t press further. They undress unceremoniously and wade out into the water until they start to float.

 

They part ways after a week. Marco takes a ferry across the Adriatic Sea to Croatia. He spends one inexplicably restless week travelling from one island to the next until he finally calms down after two days in Zadar. He is walking down the street when he sees a small record store and after entering without knowing why, his eyes fall upon an old and understandably dusty album by Justin Bieber. Laughter bubbles up his throat and before he can stop himself, he’s snapped a picture of it and sends it to Mario.

 

Marco regrets it a second after he’s hit s _end,_ but it takes no more than five minutes until his phone flashes with Mario’s reply.

_‘Where on earth do they still sell this?’_

Marco smiles at that, shakes his head remembering their shared but rather embarrassing obsession, doesn’t reply and continues along the road.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_He and Tobi got back together after Christmas. They broke up again less than a month later, this time for good, but for the same reasons it hadn’t worked out the first time. Marco was determined to stay in the closet and firmly lock the door behind him, but Tobi wasn’t willing to join him in the dark, and Marco didn’t blame him. It didn’t exactly break his heart, but it was a hard pill to swallow, because it sketched an image of the life he was going to lead for a long time. Marco had made his decision and he was going to stick to it, but he started to feel the effective tremors._

_He didn’t mind as much as long as the team was doing well, as long as he was improving with every full match he was allowed to play. He was friends with most of his teammates and they had fun on and off the pitch, but Marco did feel the occasional pang of loneliness when he came home to an empty flat after a particularly good or bad match and didn’t have anyone to share it with._

_Marco wasn’t a negative person; but it was hard to stay entirely positive._

_He did the only logical thing (because there was no way he was going to pick up some stranger in a club anymore) and put his entire focus on football._

_Until it paid off big time._

***

 

 

Marco spends a month travelling through Croatia, Bosnia and Montenegro, then he tosses a coin and flies to St. Petersburg. He sends Mario a picture of Peterhof Palace and doesn’t wait long for a reply.

 

_‘Did you know they call it the Russian Versailles?’_

Marco didn’t know that. He doesn’t answer and descends the stairs towards the gardens.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_He met Mario not, like it would’ve been easy to assume, on the pitch, but at their agency. He hadn’t known much about him, just that he’d just made his debut for Dortmund and that he was young, but already scarily good. It was cold and Marco was distracted tying his scarf when he literally bumped into Mario. Ready to utter a quick apology and be on his way, he startled when Mario held out an icy hand to shake._

_“Reus, right?” he said with a smile and then they were off, and Marco couldn’t recall ever getting on with someone so instantly. They chatted for a while; exchanged number and Marco didn’t think much about him for the next couple of weeks._

_Mönchengladbach played Dortmund for a second time in March and they lost 0:3. Kevin, whom Marco had kept in touch with after their time together in Ahlen, invited him over to his place after the match to have a few drinks and catch up and Marco light-heartedly agreed. He wasn’t surprised that Mario ended up at Kevin’s as well._

_What did surprise Marco was the fact that instead of leaving early to see his parents, he and Mario spent almost the entire night on the terrace, sharing a blanket to keep warm, comparing the music on their iPods and talking until Kevin refused to let them leave, so tired they could barely keep their eyes open. They shared Kevin’s sofa bed and drove him insane, because they didn’t shut up until the early hours of the morning._

_When Marco joined his teammates on the bus to drive back to Gladbach, he earned himself a couple of catcalls he didn’t get; at least not until he sat down next to Roman, who winked at him and said with a wink, “Night at the girlfriend’s, huh?”_

_He guessed he looked tired, a bit rumpled, but only after he caught his reflection in the bus’ window did he realise that he had a big smile plastered onto his face._

***

 

 

Marco takes the _Red Arrow_ sleeper train to Moscow. It smells like old people and heavy tobacco and produces noises he doesn’t want to think about for too long. It takes around ten hours and when Marco steps onto the platform in Moscow, he can barely move his neck. He checks into a hotel, grabs a cup of coffee and heads out towards the Red Square.

The next day, he snaps a picture of Lenin’s embalmed body.

 

‘ _Does he smell?’_

 

Marco suppresses a laugh (this is a mausoleum after all), doesn’t text back, but he heads out straight after, breathing a sigh of relief when fresh air hit his face.

 

Moscow in general is huge and impressive, but Marco can’t shake off the uneasy feeling he’s been carrying around since getting to St. Petersburg. Maybe he is being paranoid, but he visits the Red Square, spends another night and heads to the airport without having a destination in mind.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_They texted every day, without exception and Marco was very glad that he earned enough money to not have to worry about his horrendously high phone bill. They called each other too, and then they talked about pretty much everything; about practice and the latest Champions League matches, their favourite teams and players, their idols, their plans and aspirations, their friends and families, music and Inception (resulting in a lengthy argument about whether or not Leonardo DiCaprio had ended up in limbo), made fun of the latest Twilight movie or debated over the importance of the right cheese/dough ratio with regards to pizza._

_It was weird, Marco freely admitted as much, but he didn’t see any reason to stop. Caro, who visited every other weekend to make fun of his shoes and torture him with Hugh Grant movies (yes he was gay, but he wasn’t that gay), just raised her right eyebrow at him after he’d been on the phone to Mario for the entirety of ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’. The eyebrow specifically asked “new flame?”_

_“Just a friend,” Marco replied and it probably wouldn’t have taken that much more for Caro to laugh in his face._

_“Sure,” she commented with a shrug, turning back to the TV screen._

_“Caro,” Marco poked her thigh with his toe, “he really is a just a friend.”_

_“Of course he is, honey,” she smiled and patted his foot in return._

***

 

 

‘ _Is it cold?’_

Marco snorts. Even if he would reply to Mario’s texts, that question wouldn’t get one. Of course it is cold, Marco answers in his head and rubs his hands together as he puts his phone back into the pocket of his newly acquired coat (spring in Finland is freezing). He’d sent Mario a picture of an ice sculpture, because it’s still just 5 degrees in Oulu and Marco sincerely hopes Mario wasn’t being serious when he’d typed that.

 

It takes a while, and it’s not the nicest or easiest leg of his recent trip, but he feels surprisingly humbled when he reaches the northernmost point of Europe and takes a moment to properly feel the gravity of this speckle of land he’s set foot upon. Walking up to the railing, he braces his arms on it and stares out into the semi-darkness; harsh winds making his eyes water and his cheeks burn. Marco counts to ten and swallows the lump in his throat, then he makes his way back, circles the iron globe and snaps a picture of the giant road sign pointing into any possible direction. Apparently, it’s 2102 kilometres to the North Pole, and 6468 kilometres to New York and 4282 kilometres to Rome.

_‘Time to head south again?’_

And Marco guesses that it is.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_Mönchengladbach finished 12 th in the league. Dortmund jumped into the Europa League spots, and of course Bayern Munich wiped the floor with all of them. All in all, Marco couldn’t be unsatisfied with his first season, but there was certainly room for improvement. There had been a certain number of injuries that he wasn’t happy with, that had prevented him from following the call-up to the National Team (he tried not to make a big deal out of it, because he hadn’t debuted yet and there were so many talented young players who could take that spot from him), so Marco knew he was going to spend the summer working on his physique, building up his resistance and strengthening his body. _

_He took Caro to Portugal for two weeks and got back in time for Mario’s 18 th birthday_. _His parents had taken his younger brother away to the grandparents for the weekend and so the entire house got taken over. It wasn’t the biggest party Marco had been to, but they still managed to get absolutely smashed. Kevin threw up just past midnight and continued as if nothing had happened and the first people started to either leave or pass out in random places when the sun started to rise. They didn’t bother with the clean up just yet. Marco, feeling a bit unsteady on his feet, let Mario drag him upstairs and ended up with a mouth full of pillow when he fell face first onto the mattress they’d set up next to Mario’s bed earlier. He barely registered Mario staggering around his room until suddenly, the blinds were closed and everything descended into pleasant darkness. Sheets rustled and springs groaned, then it was quiet._

_Marco concentrated, trying to focus on an invisible spot on the dark ceiling to make the spinning in his head stop, then Mario spoke up unexpectedly._

_“I’m dying,” he sighed melodramatically and Marco chuckled into the sheets. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this drunk.”_

_“I have,” Marco said. “Never thrown up, though.”_

_“Gross. That was disgusting.” He paused, silence only broken by their deep and steady breaths. “I’ve never eaten squid.”_

_Marco only stopped short for a second. “I’ve never been south of the equator.”_

_“Hm,” Mario hummed. “Me neither, I think. Is Tunisia south of it?”_

_Marco could barely stop himself from getting cross-eyed. There was no way in hell he could conjure up vast geographical knowledge. “I don’t think so,” he muttered and stretched. And because he was an idiot, and drunk, but mainly an idiot, he said, “I’ve never slept with a woman.”_

_If that startled or shocked Mario – he didn’t show it. Perhaps he was too drunk to do anything but mumble a quite “okay”. But Marco suddenly heard his heart thundering loudly in his ears, throbbing almost painfully in his chest and he knew he couldn’t blame that on the five vodka shots he’d had earlier. And somehow, Marco knew that even in their dunk-off-their-ass mental state, Mario realised he hadn’t confessed to being a virgin._

_“I have,” Mario told him almost non-chalantly and he sounded half-asleep already. Marco was suddenly very much awake. “Wasn’t good. Like, not good at all,” and now he sounded almost scandalised._

_“Awkward and fumbling?” he asked, stumbling over half the syllables._

_“Awkward and fumbling,” Mario confirmed. “Like… just not – you know?”_

_He did know. At least he thought so._

***

 

 

Marco stops over in Copenhagen to stay with a couple he’d travelled with on Vancouver Island. They show him around the city and it’s the most calm and relaxed he’s felt in weeks. Their chatter and jokes distract him from the fact that he already has a plane ticket to Rome, and a comfortable rental to drive around in. He knows that it would take him between six and seven hours to drive to Turin, a bit more if he’d want to stop in Florence to see the Uffizi.

 

If there is one thing Marco hasn’t done in the past five years, it’s planning ahead. He isn’t running away anymore, but he does’t want to suddenly start running towards something.

 

 

***

 

 

_The problem with Mario, Marco decided, was that he’d met him away from any training centre or football pitch, as a civilian (which sounded as stupid in his head as when he said it out loud to himself, or Caro). The first memory Marco had of him, the first image that came to his mind, wasn’t of a professional footballer in a black and yellow kit. It was of a guy just a few inches shorter than him, in a dark coat and a purple beanie and a grey scarf, with cheeks reddened by the cold air from outside and dark eyes slightly watery from the wind they’d been exposed to._

_Mario wasn’t even his type. He was so distinctly different from anyone Marco had ever dated or just fooled around with, yet he somehow managed to eclipse all of them, and nowadays Marco had a hard time even remembering Tobi’s face. Marco blamed it partially on the fact that Mario had, in a year, achieved to insert himself completely into Marco’s life. They were in a platonic but still somewhat strangely co-dependent long-distance relationship and the longer it went on, the harder it became for Marco to actually stress that platonic distinction. He blamed his utterly sad lack of any sort of love life and convinced himself that he had turned Mario into a substitute._

_Until, of course, he realised that Mario wasn’t a substitute at all, or for anything._

_Caro laughed at him and patted his cheek after he’d naively shared his dilemma with her, and continued to torture him, even when she wasn’t in Gladbach, by sending him countless pictures; Mario featured in a magazine, Mario warming up before a league match, Mario during a league match, sweaty and with his jersey sticking to his chest and –_

_It was, quite frankly, kind of embarrassing for Marco. He wasn’t a teenager, and Mario wasn’t even his type, and Marco did not have a crush. Mario was his best friend, without close competition and sometimes they didn’t see each other for months, and then it was because their clubs played against each other, yet there was… something Marco couldn’t put his finger on. Something unspoken for, and a bit scary, like a comfortable tension that told Marco things he tried not to think about too much._

***

 

 

He spends his first day at Rome asleep in his hotel room, no idea how tired he is until he lies down for just a moment. Twelve hours later, he wakes up with a sore back and a growling stomach, so he rolls onto his stomach and closes his eyes again. The next day, Marco forces down coffee and heads out into the warm spring sun, without a map and without a clue what he wants to see; without a clue what he’s actually doing in Rome, what the hell he’s even doing in Italy. He walks around with a bad mood probably undeserving of the breathtaking sights surrounding him and he needs until early afternoon to get a grip. Another cup of strong coffee gets his feet back on the ground and since he’s close to it anyway, Marco heads to St. Peter’s Square and, armed with sunglasses and a bowler hat he’d bought in Shanghai, gets in line to enter the Basilica.

 

After he’s taken the first couple of steps inside, Marco almost dislocates his jaw staring up at the ceiling in utter awe. He’s spent so much time actively avoiding people and civilisation, travelling to secluded places to not be confronted with why he’d left in the first place, that he sometimes forgets that for all its flaws, humanity did manage to create a few miracles of their own. Taking off his sunglasses, he tucks them into the neckline of his t-shirt and walks across the marble floors towards the dome. Rays of light shine through gaps in the ceiling, cutting across the scene in front of him and Marco holds his breath for a moment, before he dazedly takes out his phone and snaps one of the best pictures he’s ever taken.

 

Marco stays absolutely still and distractedly wonders if he should have perhaps taken a multi-coloured flag with him to hide it somewhere in silent protest, to make a statement. Then he winces at the thought, because if there is one sentence he’s heard too many times in his life, it’s _to make a statement_. Marco has never been that type of person.

 

He leaves and buys a map on the next street corner, then walks until his feet hurt and it’s so dark he can barely read the road signs. Back in his room, Marco tries to figure out how to prolong his stay in Rome without boring himself to death, how to fit in as many stages between Rome and Turin to buy himself time, or finding an excuse to avoid Turin altogether. It’s so pathetic Marco has to cringe at himself and he ends up tossing the map across the room, accompanied by a row of curses he hasn’t used since his footballing days. When his phone beeps all of a sudden, he almost throws it against the wall too.

_‘Are you even allowed to take pictures in there?’_

 

Marco shakes his head and smiles to himself. The next morning, he gets into his car and drives to Florence.

_***_

_The call-up to the National Team was the culmination of everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d worked for so hard. There was some unfortunate timing of injuries involved until he finally, actually made it to the team, but that didn’t matter anymore. He didn’t sleep for what felt like days before travelling to meet up with everyone at Frankfurt Airport. But any anxiety was quickly pushed aside due to the sheer elation and insanity that threatened to knock him off his feet when he stopped for a second to just think._

_Marco smiled so hard it hurt his cheeks when he, together with Simon and André, entered the lounge the rest of the team and staff was waiting at. He knew most of them, but some only briefly, as opponents, since there was nobody from Mönchengladbach besides him. But he knew the guys from Leverkusen pretty well, and he immediately saw the small group of Dortmund players huddled together in one corner, with a side of Mesut. Mats saluted him with a crooked smile when Marco flopped down next to Mario, who silently passed him one of his earphones, flinching when Marco poked him between his ribs. Marco switched off his phone and started pulling on the hood of Mario’s sweatshirt._

_“Transformers 3?”_

_Mario snorted. “Oh God, what a massive load of shit. Moneyball?”_

_“Quite good, actually,” Marco admitted. “But I still don’t get Baseball. The new X-Men?”_

_“I liked it. Midnight in Paris?”_

_Marco gave Mario a sideway glance. “Are you kidding me?”_

_“It’s Woody Allen!”_

_“So?” Marco laughed. “Jesus, you’re such a snob. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy?”_

_Their eyes locked. “Now who’s the snob? Thor?”_

_“Yeah, what was Natalie Portman doing in that?”_

_Mario shrugged. “No idea.”_

_A snorted laugh interrupted them and Marco’s eyes short up to see that Mats had covered his mouth with his sleeve. Mesut was staring at them with a wrinkled forehead. “You guys are so weird,” he said. They bumped their fists to underline that statement._

_It was entirely without question that they sat next to each other on the plane to Istanbul, and then on the bus to their hotel, and that they shared a room, and paired up for training exercises. They weren’t literally joined at the hips, but they might have been just as well, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Marco couldn’t really help it, but he indulged himself, grabbed Mario whenever he felt like it, pulled him close or pushed him hard enough so he would fall over his own feet. He enjoyed it, partially because Mario knew, and didn’t mind anyway._

_It fitted into the flow of the entire week when Marco made his National Team debut as a substitute for Mario. And if the hug on the sideline ended up being a bit tighter and longer than usually, nobody said a word._

***

 

 

Marco plans on staying in Florence for only half a day. The schedule is tight, and he hurries to the Uffizi. He knows that this is a place that deserves more than a few hurried glances. He knows enough to feel guilty for not spending hours gazing upon Boticelli’s _The Birth of Venus._ There’s a painting by Da Vinci, by Raffael and Caravaggio and Michelangelo, and Marco tries to stop, tries to appreciate the magnitude of those masterpieces – but there are just so many people. He’s never been claustrophobic, yet some things leave marks and that’s a particular issue he hasn’t been able to get over until this point. So he looks for the quickest way through the mass of people and just when he thinks he’s out of the thick of it, he feels a pull on his shirt, making him stop and turn around.

 

There’s a kid. Not much older than – maybe eight? He’s got a head covered by messy, dark curls that reach the shoulders of a white football jersey the kid’s apparently pulled over a long sleeved shirt in defiance. Marco recognises the jersey. Of course he does. Simple, white, with black edge and the eagle right above the heart; and four golden stars framing its head. His throat tightens. Marco’s forgotten what it feels like to be looked at in utter, unguarded adoration.

 

The boy pulls on the hem of his shirt once more. “Are you Reus?” he asks, not beating around the bush.

 

“Um,” Marco says. “Yeah, I am.”

 

“Can you sign this?” As an afterthought, he adds, “please?”

 

That he is baffled would be an understatement. But the brief moment of hesitation seems to spark panic, because the boy continues to tuck frantically. “Please? It’s yours. You need to sign it,” and he points to his back, where Marco would, if he looked, undoubtedly see a black eleven with his name right above it.

 

“Sure, sure,” he quickly replies, crouching down so they can be eye to eye. “I just don’t have a pen.”

 

“Mama does,” the boy says and seemingly out of the blue, there is a woman by his side, in skinny jeans and a white tunic, who looks a little too young to be the boy’s mother, but Marco isn’t one to judge. She smiles at him, almost apologetically, and holds out a children’s felt-tip.

 

“I hope it’s no inconvenience,” she says, sounding as young as she looks. “But he’s a really big fan. I mean, we all were – are! Especially after the, uh. You know. Yay you, right?” and she smiles again, almost all her teeth showing, then she clears her throat and hands him the pen.

 

“It’s no problem,” Marco tells her, because this isn’t, and it never was. Then he turns to the boy. “What’s your name?”

 

“Mario.”

 

 _Of course it is_ , Marco thinks, stretches the fabric of little Mario’s jersey across his knee. “I have a… friend who’s called that.”

 

Little Mario leans forward and drops his voice, like he’s telling a secret. “I know. I don’t like him. Mum says he’s an asshole.”

 

Marco starts to look up at little Mario’s mother, but the boy vehemently shakes his head. “Nah, that’s Mama,” he tells Marco. “My mum says that. She calls him traitor.”

 

Marco blinks and finishes signing, then he stretches his knees. “Um,” he starts, but the kid’s mother (at least one of them) interrupts him with a wink.

 

“My wife’s from Dortmund,” as if that explains everything, which – actually – it does. “Thank you so much. He’s probably not even going to remember this place, just that he met you.”

 

“I hope not,” Marco says, because how much of a shame would that be.

 

She shrugs. “Well, boys, you know?”

 

“I do. Well… I got to be off, so –”

 

“Of course,” she calls out with an embarrassed smile as she realises that quite a handful of people are now starting too look their way. “So sorry, Jesus. But thanks, so much, really. Say thank you, baby,” and her son does, then they both wave and disappear in the opposite direction.

 

Marco looks after them for a moment, then he turns on his heels, knees suddenly feeling a little week, and sends the grown-up Mario a picture of the Venus. He counts to three before his display lights up.

_‘When are you getting to Turin?’_

 

 _Far too soon_ , Marco thinks, and makes his way towards the Ponte Vecchio.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_There was something off between them after the match against Turkey. Not badly off just – different. They sat on the bus, arms touching from wrist to shoulder, sharing an iPod (Marco wasn’t even sure at this point if it was his or Mario’s), and they didn’t say a single word the entire ride back to their hotel._

***

 

 

_‘That’s my front door.’_

 

And that isn’t a question. Marco smiles to himself, trying to appear calmer as he feels on the inside, and puts his phone back into his bag, which he slings over his shoulder, walking up the steps of the porch. The door swings open only a second later and Mario steps out, wearing battered jeans and a navy t-shirt, smiling wide.

 

“You’re an idiot,” Mario says as a way of greeting. “Taking a picture of my door.”

 

Marco looks at him pointedly. “You asked if it was cold after getting a picture of an ice sculpture.”

 

“Point taken.”

 

They stand in front of each other for another couple of seconds, until Mario pulls him into a one-armed, and slightly awkward, hug, stepping aside to let Marco in. The house, about an hour outside of Turin, surrounded by nothing but hills and forest, is big, but not massively so. It looks nice at first glance; parquet floors, cream-coloured walls and an expectedly large amount of shoes cluttering the hallway. Marco drops his bag and follows Mario into what turns out to be an open-plan living area, with the kitchen on the left side, a dining table in the middle and a few leather armchairs and sofas on the far right.

 

“Beer?” Mario calls over his shoulder as he rounds the kitchen island and walks towards the American-style fridge.

 

“Sure,” Marco answers and walks towards the back of the house, which is almost entirely made out of glass, allowing an absolutely stunning view. He can see a big terrace, some random patches of grass, and so many trees scattering the hills that he won’t attempt to try and count them all. Even considering that Marco’s seen most of the world by now, this is a nice spot Mario picked for himself. Said person now holds out a bottle for him to take and joins him by the windows. “Nice place,” Marco tells him.

 

“Yeah, I know. I bought it a few years ago. Grew tired of living in the city,” he explains. “It’s more private. Less traffic.”

 

“I can imagine,” Marco comments and takes a sip. He glances down at the label on the bottle, distinctively German, and smiles to himself. Silence stretches on and it’s not uncomfortable anymore, nor awkward, but Marco doesn’t really know what to say to Mario; can’t even begin to imagine how he should start an actual, not superficial, conversation with him.

 

Fortunately for him, Mario takes over. “You hungry?” he asks.

 

“Starving.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

_It was late when the bus finally reached their hotel, but adrenaline was still pumping through their bodies and Marco imagined that this applied even more to him, since one didn’t make his debut for the National Team every day and his blood pressure was probably unhealthily high. There was only a light training session scheduled for around noon the following day, so Jogi let them be when the entire team piled into Basti’s bedroom._

_The room was small, and they were many people, so Marco ended up sandwiched between Mario and André whilst Lukas did his best to entertain the lot. He did well and soon the entire room was filled with voices and laughter and Marco couldn’t hear his own thoughts, which was most definitely a good thing, because someone (Marco didn’t want to point fingers, but he strongly suspected Thomas) had managed to organise a crate of beer. Marco ended up sharing one with Mario, because he didn’t trust himself with more, but it was enough to warm his blood and cloud his head ever so slightly._

_Perhaps he only imagined it, but the air grew tighter around him, making it harder to take deep breaths and he became overly aware of Mario’s body next to his, of his lips close to Marco’s neck after he’d leaned against his shoulder. Marco tangled his fingers tightly into the material of his training jacket and tried to focus on anything but his best friend beside him. It didn’t work, it didn’t work at all, so Marco decided to take the coward’s way out of his and got to his unsteady feet. Tripping over a couple of outstretched legs and piles of clothing, he waved goodnight and made his way to the door, earning a few light-hearted taunts, but when he stepped out into the hotel’s empty hallway, Mario was right behind him._

***

 

 

Mario moves around the kitchen with ease, boiling water and throwing in some pasta and Marco feels stupid just standing around, but Mario waves him away, telling him to wait outside. Marco isn’t in the mood to argue, so he turns the corner and steps out onto the terrace where the air is fresh but surprisingly warm. There is a certain smell in the air, scented with tree gum and soil and apart from the clatter that’s coming from the kitchen, it is utterly quiet. The wooden planks of the patio groan quietly when he walks across them to sit down at the small table towards the edge, overlooking the scenery and he takes a minute to just calmly fill and empty his lung, and then fill it again.

 

When Mario joins him, Marco can’t say how much time has actually passed. They commit sacrilege by having pasta and pesto with beer instead of wine and watch contours get fuzzier as the sun slowly starts to set. It remains warm, so they stay outside. Mario gets them more beer and Marco loosens his posture, lets tension pour from his shoulders like water. Eventually, he is relaxed enough to feel reckless.

 

“Why did you want me to come?”

 

He doesn’t turn his head Mario’s way, but he hears him setting his bottle down on the table. “I don’t know,” he answers after a moment’s hesitation. “Why did you send me all those pictures?” Another heavy pause. “Why did you come?”

 

“Not sure,” Marco shrugs and takes another sip of his beer.

 

“Well, I’d,” Mario starts and clears his throat. “I’d like to think we’re still friends.”

 

Marco can’t help the dry laugh that works its way up his throat and past his lips. Slowly, he turns his head to the side. “Mario,” he says slowly. “You know as well as I do that we were never just friends.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

_Marco was ready to crawl out of his own skin by the time they reach their bedroom. He walked in first, a couple of steps into the room, and brought is hands to his heated face, rubbing over his cheeks and tired eyes. He took a couple of trembling breaths and turned around as soon as he heard the door’s lock click. Mario let go of the handle and leaned against the door, crossing his arms behind his back, worrying his lower lip, looking at Marco as if – well. Marco wasn’t exactly sure, but he guessed it was similar to the way he was currently looking at Mario._

_“I’m not –” Mario started and cleared his throat. “I’m not reading this wrong, right?”_

_Marco dropped his hands to his sides. “I don’t think so.” Because this was what they’d been heading towards since day one, Marco realised belatedly._

_“Okay,” Mario said, still not moving from his spot against the door._

_“Okay,” he echoed and contemplated moving forward, but his legs had already made that decision for him._

_They breathed each other’s air for some unimaginably drawn-out seconds, lips close, but not touching, eyes closing. Marco hovered closely, still hesitating for the fraction of a moment, until Mario brought up his hands, grabbed a solid portion of Marco’s jacket and pulled him in. Their bodies collided, lips parted in a silent, simultaneous gasp. Marco dipped his head and leaned in._

_Kissing, at least in Marco’s books, was nothing overly spectacular. Naturally, he wasn’t a big fan of PDA; therefore kissing had always been a tool to instigate something other than kissing. He hadn’t made a habit out of making out with his boyfriends on the couch. Now, every single nerve in his body was standing on end. He could feel blunt fingernails digging through the material of his clothes, raking down his sides, making his skin burn as much as his oxygen-deprived lungs, but Marco didn’t want to stop, possibly not ever. He pulled away enough to lick across Mario’s bottom lip and gave it a soft tug with his teeth, planting his hands on either side of Mario’s head to prevent his body from swaying. Mario caught his mouth again, angled his head and deepened the kiss even further, and it just went on and on and there was a foot hooking around the back of his thighs and –_

_“God.” His voice was barely audible. “We should –”_

_“ – stop? For now?”_

_“Yeah…” Marco couldn’t tear his eyes away from Mario’s lips, red and swollen and still shimmering with – “I mean, there’s… we have that training session…”_

_“And there are people next door,” Mario added, fingers still firmly on Marco’s hips._

_He tried to get his pulse back to normal speed. “Maybe we should –”_

_“Do this once we get home?”_

_“Definitely. Yes.”_

***

 

 

The legs of his chair scrape over the patio and Marco gets to his feet, walks a couple of steps to the edge. About a dozen rectangular boulders are laid out to form stairs that lead to an almost unnaturally green patch of grass; a couple of wild flowers, some blossoming trees, a fucking football by the old pine trees. He hasn’t touched one in – God, at least three years, and he can’t but wonder whether he’s forgotten how to play. It would be easy to just walk over there and try it out. Marco still doesn’t do it.

 

He turns and sees that Mario has been following his gaze to the ball lying on the almost black soil. Not for the first time this day, Marco asks himself what on earth possessed him to come here. He doesn’t know what he expected. They’ve barely spoken a word to each other in ten fucking years and now they are trying to – what, exactly?

 

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, feeling the strain of the past couple of weeks in his bones, weighing him down.

 

Mario bites his lips and shrugs, and in the fading light, with enough distance between them, he suddenly looks painfully young. “I don’t know. What do you want to say? I was prepared for some shouting, you know. So fire away if you feel like it.”

 

“I don’t,” Marco tells him. “I really don’t,” and he moves away, starts to put even more physical distance between them, perhaps trying to match the emotional canyon that separates them these days.

 

“I would, if I were you,” he hears Mario say quietly.

 

“But you’re not me,” then he heads back inside.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_Marco believed that it was practically inevitable for things to change at least slightly between them. But they didn’t. They still texted and talked about what they’d texted and talked about before. It was easy and it was effortless and they didn’t have to talk about anything to clarify what was actually happening between them – they were best friends, and now they were sleeping with each other. Marco guessed they would deal with everything else if it ever came their way._

_The sex was phenomenal. Marco couldn’t even begin to comprehend how fucking phenomenal the sex was, considering they didn’t have much practice with each other, or with that many other people. Although Marco didn’t know if that applied to Mario, since their respective sex lives was the one thing they hadn’t talked about before. Marco didn’t particularly want to mention it now, because he felt inappropriately jealous of people he didn’t know existed or not, which was childish and immature and Marco tried quite hard to ignore that not talking was probably immature as well._

_Who could blame him? They barely had two or three days a month to spend together and the last thing Marco wanted to do when Mario walked through his door was talk. Marco wanted to strip him out of his shirt and lick a trail down his smooth, tanned chest and he wanted to sink to his knees and drive him insane. But he also wanted to pull Mario back against his chest while they watched TV, have a second toothbrush in his bathroom and a section in his wardrobe that wasn’t his, and he wanted to wake up next to Mario and be the first person he saw every day._

_It took a couple of weeks but eventually, Marco had to admit that he wasn’t just sleeping with his best friend – he was in love with him._

***

 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Marco turns around with a sigh, sees Mario hovering in the doorway. For what, he wants to ask, because there is a list of things Mario could and probably should be sorry for. There is also a list of things Marco wants to say to him (it’s an actual list, somewhere in one of the boxes from his old apartment that are currently stored away in his parents’ attic), but he can’t be bothered at this moment. He fears that if he starts, he might not stop for hours, and he is tired.

 

“I’m sure you are,” he says dismissively. “But I’d rather stop talking now, okay? I’m sure we’ve both had a long day.”

 

Mario looks like he wants to say something else, but in the end he goes with, “of course” and shows Marco to the guest room.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_They didn’t talk, and they didn’t worry about the speed with which their relationship was progressing. Christmas rolled around and Marco went back to Dortmund to spend time with his family, which turned into mostly spending time with Mario. He’d met Mario’s parents and brothers before, but this time, he guessed he met them as the boyfriend (although that term wasn’t specifically used, the statement was pretty obvious when Mario took his hand during dinner). Nobody batted an eyelid when Marco stayed the night. Two days later, he introduced Mario to his parents and sisters._

_After the winter break, things went surprisingly well in all areas. Marco divided his focus between football and Mario and although he knew that his agent was in talks with Mönchengladbach over his contract whilst reviewing quite an impressive amount of offers from other clubs, he didn’t want to get involved in it. He owed it to his club to give his all until the end of the season and he wouldn’t make a decision based on financial perks. He didn’t talk to Mario about it and Mario didn’t ask._

_Which meant that Marco made his decision still halfway through the second half of the season, without any outside influences, solely based on what he thought and what he wanted (which, fortunately, also played into what family and friends wanted for him). He told the club that he wasn’t going to renew, made a few more phone calls, then told Mario the following weekend. Dortmund had won their match and it looked like they were going to snatch the Bundesliga title for a second consecutive season, so Mario was in a good mood in spite of his injury. He almost spit apple juice all over Marco’s couch._

_“You’re fucking with me.”_

_Marco grinned to himself and shook his head. “Nope. I’m signing in a few weeks, before the season’s over.”_

_“Let me get this straight,” Mario said, pulling his legs in to kneel on the couch to face Marco. “You had at least three other clubs offering well over 20 million for you, and you chose your old childhood club over them?” He grinned. “Maybe Kloppo should give me a bonus?”_

_Marco returned his smile, watching Mario move closer, sliding into the space between his legs until their noses brushed. “What, you think I chose Dortmund because of you?”_

_“Naturally,” Mario replied, pressing their lips together briefly. “I’ve got skills.”_

_“You do? I’m not so sure – ow!”_

_Mario pinched him again, probably for good measure. “You just want me to blow you.”_

_“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it…”_

_He suppressed another yelp as Mario dug his fingers between his ribs and swallowed an eager groan when he went for his belt straight after._

***

 

 

Marco wakes up at the crack of dawn, but he presses his face into the pillow and doesn’t move for another hour or two. He thinks that he is waiting for the familiar itch that tells him he’s got to get going, and soon, but it doesn’t come. Possibly because of unfinished business he can’t leave behind, not this time. So he gets up, has a quick shower in the ensuite bathroom, grabs a pair of jeans and a t-shirt out of his bag and heads downstairs. There is a note stuck to the fridge with Mario’s familiar scribble, telling him that Mario has some meetings and will be back this afternoon and to make himself at home (also there is coffee on the stove).

 

Marco fills a cup and heads outside where it smells even better than the previous evening. He makes a mental note to go for a walk later and downs his coffee, rises to get a second cup as well as his shoes. He takes two more sips, then he leaves the cup on the patio, is careful not to slip on the still slightly damp grass and relishes the surrounding silence.

 

The farther he walks away from the house, the easier it becomes to pretend that it’s not Mario’s and that, in a couple of hours, they aren’t going to face each other awkwardly, unknowing how to deal with their utter inability to deal with this. Marco guesses it would be less difficult if he knew what Mario was trying to achieve, but he doesn’t, and since he still has no clue why he came in the first place (although perhaps it would be healthy for him to eventually stop lying to himself), so he can’t actually point any fingers in this situation.

 

Marco wants to stay out here, maybe hide, but he doesn’t want to walk too far and get lost like an idiot. After strolling back and forth for a while, suddenly finding the peace and quiet rather unsettling than relaxing, he sits down on a mossy boulder and takes out his phone from the pocket of his jeans. For five minutes, he thinks about checking his emails, or perhaps his voicemail, but the sheer amount of messages would probably throttle him. Instead, he goes through his list of contacts and decides to call the one person who might possibly, with the slightest chance, be able to help him in his dilemma.

 

“Hello?”

 

Marco can hear some commotion in the background. “Um, it’s me. Is this a bad time?”

 

“Marco?” The noises get muffled and he assumes Mats has put one hand over the speaker. “No, no, it’s fine, we’ve just established that the Looney Tunes are closer to my children’s hearts than I am, and that they’d be happy to exchange me with Bugs Bunny.”

 

“No surprise there.”

 

“Ungrateful little brats,” Mats says light-heartedly and Marco hopes that his kids don’t hear that. But it’s quieter from the other end of the line, so he assumes that Mats has left the room to talk in peace. “What’s up, man? Where are you at?”

 

Marco laughs dryly. “Yeah, that’s kind of the reason I’m calling. I’m in Italy. At Mario’s.”

 

There is a heavy clonk and a hearty curse, then he hears Mats’ voice again. “Are you serious?” he lets out a long whistle. “Damn. How did that happen?”

 

“I’m not really sure myself,” Marco replies honestly. “He’s gone out, and I’m just trying to convince myself not to make a run for it.”

 

“Do you want me to talk sense into you?” Mats asks. “Because I’m going to need more information for that.”

 

Marco rubs his neck and gets up, because that damn stone he’s been sitting on is cold and a bit wet and more than a bit uncomfortable. “We talked at the wedding. And it was – fine, I guess. He told me to stop by if I got to Italy. And I did. I think he wants us to talk.”

 

“And that’s a bad thing?”

 

Perhaps not, but – “What the fuck is there to talk about?” he blurts out. “Seriously! He’s acting like the last ten years didn’t happen and I think he wants to be friends again and –”

 

“Marco?” Mats breaks him off. “Calm down, all right? You’re not twenty-three and he is not moving to Munich. And – sorry to tell you this – you’re probably not making it very easy for him.”

 

“Is that what it’s supposed to be? Easy? Want me to go easy on him?”

 

“No,” Mats tells him. “But you can give him a chance. Isn’t that why you’re there?”

 

Marco feels his body deflate, anger leaving him in waves, rolling off his shoulders. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know what I’m doing here. What I was thinking.” He pauses for a moment. “Did you talk to him?”

 

“Recently? No. We chatted at the wedding and we generally keep in touch and – okay. Listen.” Mats’ tone changes slightly, but Marco has known him long enough to realise what that means, and he braces himself. “We’ve all grown up. He’s been trying to make amends. For a while.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“He wanted to retire at Dortmund, did you know that?” and Marco stops short. “Didn’t want to extend his contract at Juventus and come back. Kloppo was in on in, and Aki, nobody else knew. It fell through anyway.”

 

He has a bad feeling about this. “Because of me?” Mats’ silence is confirmation enough. Marco feels dizzy. “Jesus.”

 

“I told him to call you,” Mats recalls. “He said he would, but he didn’t. So, if you don’t know what to talk about, that could be one thing.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

_The European Cup didn’t go as Marco had expected; or hoped. Granted, none of them had hoped to get kicked out by Italy of all teams, but it was especially bitter for him, for Mario, and those who didn’t even get the chance to do anything to change their fate. He hadn’t been a part of the National Team for long so he understood that he had to earn his place, but it was frustrating nonetheless. And Mario… He was the best damn footballer Marco had ever played with or against, regardless of the fact that he was screwing him, and to see him benched was just plain painful._

_Marco got over it after a handful of days, surprising himself more than anyone else. The anger and frustration was replaced by a sense of calm and he knew, just so surely and absolutely knew, that their time would come._

_They went on holiday together with André (one of the few trustees, who unfortunately enjoying making them uncomfortable with dubious comments) and then the new season started and it was – Marco didn’t have the words to describe it. It wasn’t just perfect, it was… everything. It was everything and it meant everything and he never ever wanted it to end._

***

 

 

Mario comes back at around three in the afternoon, carrying a small bag that he drops in the doorway when he sees Marco sitting at the kitchen island, nursing a glass of whisky that is so strong he’s only managed to drink a quarter of it in the past hour. He is wearing this stupidly soft-looking grey Henley, rolled up to his elbows and two buttons undone to reveal the jutted line of his collarbones. Tanned, strong fingers grab the edge of the counter. Marco’s eyes shoot back up to Mario’s face.

 

“Am I going to need some, too?” Mario asks and gestures at Marco’s glass, who doesn’t hesitate to slide it across.

 

“I talked to Mats.”

 

“And here we go,” Mario says and takes an impressive sip. He pulls a face, puts the glass back down. “What did he say?”

 

Marco tries to talk around the lump in his throat. “That you wanted to come back,” he manages to say evenly. “That you wanted to tell me. But you decided against both, obviously.”

 

Mario sighs and sits down, apparently trying to hypnotise the marble countertop. He doesn’t say anything for a long while and Marco wants Mario to stop having this effect on him. He brushes his hands over the rough material of his jeans in an attempt to stay calm.

 

“Why did you stay in Turin?” he presses on and Mario cracks.

 

“Because I was scared,” he surrenders and Marco thinks he can still see it there in his eyes. “I was fucking terrified. When I left, I was a stupid, petulant child and the fans never forgave me for that. I thought they wouldn’t want me back. You did forgive me for going to Munich, but – well. I knew you didn’t want me back. So I signed the contract extension, partially because I was a coward, and partially because Juventus has always been good to me, and I wanted to at least show them my appreciation.” Giving Marco a tired smile, he slides the whisky back towards him. “I played until my body wouldn’t let me anymore and now I work for the club, mostly with the kids,” and he folds his hands on the countertop. “You’ve told me about touring the world, and now I’ve told you about this, but I doubt this makes us even.”

 

“Is that the point of all this?” Marco asks and finishes the whisky, suppressing a cough as it burns all the way down his to his stomach. “Making us even?”

 

“No,” and something in the way Mario says it makes Marco prepare for another blow. “I just – I just miss you. I really fucking miss you.” 

 

 

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco spends his retirement running away until he can't anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am still trying to get over this. Don't think I ever will. Plus, I'm a sucker for retirement fics. Title is taken from Ben Howard's song "Old Pine".
> 
> Disclaimer: This is all fiction. I don't own anything or anyone. If I did, I'd drag Mario back to Dortmund by his ears.

 

_Then today I wake up feeling easy_  
And find I’m on the more familiar roads  
I got a darkness wrapped inside me  
But now it ain’t so hard to let it go  
So keep a candle burning in the window  
I’m almost home  
  
 **Radical Face, _A Pound of Flesh_**

***

 

_The media went batshit crazy. That was the only fitting description Marco could come up with. He knew that the on-pitch partnership with Mario eclipsed everyone’s expectations (even his own, despite knowing how well they worked together in their off-pitch relationship nobody knew about, thankfully), but he doubted that it was as extraordinary as they all made it seem. They just gelled, knew each other so well that they could anticipate the other’s movements at any given moment. And more than anything, Marco just loved playing with Mario and he didn’t grow tired of praising him._

_The reporters, the press, everyone just ate it up and they got asked to do interviews together, were featured in magazines and were all commentators ever talked about. Marco did wonder though, if they would have to be more careful, because even best friends had certain boundaries and when Caro ended their little arrangement, Mario’s management stepped in. It was all very secret service and in Marco’s opinion it was very much ridiculous too, providing Mario with an alibi-girlfriend who looked like they’d snatched her from Real Housewives of Atlantic City._

_It was all tolerable, Marco guessed, even losing ground in their league campaign because they’d kicked Real Madrid’s ass in the Champions League, until it wasn’t anymore. Because good things only ever came in small packages and it seemed like Marco had some penalties to pay for receiving too much in the past few years._

_Mario told him that he was going to transfer to Bayern Munich, Marco cried like a girl, and a week later he broke up with him._

_For two weeks, Marco was an absolute mess. He dodged phone calls, barely slept, fell over his own feet at practice and was in a generally foul mood. Kevin happily listened to him curse Mario to hell and back. Mo and Leo came over to his place with pizza and all Die Hard movies. Mats was, as always, the voice of reason and strangely enough, Cathy was very much invested too. It was around then that Marco realised that their (now on-hiatus) relationship was a very well-kept but nevertheless open secret._

_On the fifteenth day, Mario stood in front of his door, said, “I’m sorry. I love you, and I’m sorry,” and it was the first time either of them had said that._

_They got back together and flew to Ibiza and Marco helped him pack and he helped picking a flat and he helped him move because according to Kevin, Marco was already boyfriend of the year for forgiving treason (his words, not Marco’s, but he silently agreed). He picked out the furniture with Mario and they assembled an IKEA bookshelf more or less successfully, but it still gave Marco the feeling that, against all odds, this was going to work out._

 

 

 

***

 

 

Marco has a look around the ground floor while Mario has a shower, mostly to give his mind something other to do than thinking about Mario taking a shower. Besides the kitchen and living room, there is another guest bedroom and what Marco assumes to be some kind of office, but it’s surprisingly big. Filled with a couple of overflowing bookcases, two armchairs and a desk showcasing Mario’s very particular sense of order (which is non-existent), Marco’s focus is immediately taken up by the array of picture frames on one wall.

 

There are at least two dozen images and Marco isn’t familiar with all of them. A few photographs from Mario’s time a Juventus, winning Serie A and surrounded by a couple of people Marco only knows as opponents; Pirlo who had retired shortly after Mario had moved to Turin as his heir-apparent, and Marchisio, Isco, Pastore. Mario with his brothers, with his parents, with Kloppo and Mats and Kevin and Schmelle and Nuri. Some of his time at Bayern Munich, but most are of the National Team. When Marco takes a step back, he can retrace Mario’s entire career, culminating in the centre, with the two of them holding up the massive, gold-encrusted trophy every footballer wants to get his hands on, expressions of utmost joy and ecstasy (perhaps also a shred of disbelief) etched onto their faces.

 

“Remember that?”

 

Marco throws a quick glance over his shoulder. Mario is standing in the doorway, in jeans and a white t-shirt, towel dangling in his hand. “That was a rhetorical question, right?” he shoots back, because he remembers the exact moment that picture was taken; remembers how the air had smelled and the weight of the trophy in his hands and how Mario had fitted so perfectly to his side, wearing the new kits and celebrating the day away beneath the black sky of Rio de Janeiro.

 

Mario moves and comes to a halt right by Marco’s left shoulder. “I still wake up sometimes and think we’ve actually lost the final. Then I pinch myself and realise that it did happen. And that it happened again.”

 

He can smell Mario’s shower gel, subtle but so familiar Marco silently curses himself. He can feel the heat from Mario’s skin and the growing tension between them, sizzling like electricity and he tries to focus on anything but Mario, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the small droplet of water curling around Mario’s jaw, dropping onto his collarbone and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_They wrote their own piece of history in Brazil. Marco knew that they were amongst the favourites to win this entire thing and he tried to keep expectations to a minimum, but then they started, and they started to fly. Ploughing through the group stages, their defence was solid and their forwards on fire and most of all, their midfield was working like a well-oiled machine, orchestrating games with near perfection. With Mario and Mesut behind him and André up ahead, Marco tore through defences and dismantled all opponents._

_Japan was kicked out in the round of last sixteen, then came France. Marco had to sit out the semi-final as a precaution due to a strain in his tight, and he almost chewed through his jacket sleeve as he watched his team go up against the hosts. The first goalless half made him feel sick to his stomach, but when the second half started, his eyes zeroed in on Mario and he forgot to be anxious. When he really got going, there was nobody quite like Mario. Sure, he wasn’t Messi and he wasn’t Xavi or Neymar or Iniesta either. But he didn’t need to be, because he drifted into spaces and flicked the ball with his heels and directed the others like he’d been born to do this and Marco didn’t doubt for a second that he was._

_They kicked out Brazil in the semi-final after two goals from Mario and one from Mesut. Argentina took care of Spain and then it was all up to them. The night before the final, they slept on top of the sheets, bodies not touching and only their hands tightly intertwined. Marco felt calmer and more centred than he had ever felt in his entire life, and even when Agüero sent the second one past Manuel in the 30 th minute, there wasn’t an ounce of him that felt panic. He found Mario’s eyes at the midfield circle and they exchange a single glance. Then they got back to work._

_Toni, stepping in for the injured Basti, scored just after the second half got off, making the score 2-1. And even with fifteen minutes left, Marco knew that there was no way they were going to lose. He scored from a freekick in the 80 th minute and blew the match wide open. Jogi showed that he had some balls, subbed off Toni and put on André to add extra firepower. It took until the third minute of extra time, but it happened._

_Manuel caught the ball after Mascherano had shot it towards his goal in a desperate attempt to twist the game in Argentina’s favour, and he launched it more than halfway across the pitch. Mario brought it down, only looking up for a single second before pushing it towards Argentina’s box in a straight line, knowing that Marco would cut in from the left. He almost slipped, dodged a defender and ran so fast his lungs started to burn painfully. He came face to face with Romero and knew that one wrong move could end the biggest chance of winning this game. So Marco angled his body and lobbed the ball across Romero’s head. It came off the top post of the goal and calmly bounced across the line._

***

 

 

Marco practically flees the room. He fumbles for the packet of cigarettes that he’d put into his pocket in foresight as he walks across the living room and out onto the terrace. He lets out a quiet curse as he lights the damn thing, trying not to cough as the smoke fills his lungs.

 

Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t like to think about the World Cup in Brazil. It makes him nostalgic in all the wrong ways, reminding him how fucking brilliant everything had been back then and how it had gone downhill from there, slowly but steadily. And he doesn’t mean football, because of course nothing could top winning the World Cup and scoring the winning goal and bringing that trophy to Berlin after twenty-fucking-four years of absence. No, Marco doesn’t want to think about it because the first image that comes to his mind is of Mario; tanned, naked, surrounded by white sheets and a softly shimmering medal around his neck, reaching out to tug him back down for a kiss, breathing _always_ into Marco’s lungs and pressing _I love you’_ s onto his skin, again and again and again.

 

It’s unfair and Marco knows that, but he remembers that one moment and his stomach twists uncomfortably because he was stupid and a fool and believed words that seemed to matter nothing when they should have. He feels even more foolish because he never saw it coming.

 

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

 

Marco’s head whips around. “I don’t, really,” he says and swallows, fighting the burn in his eyes, and even more the one in his chest. “I take a few drags and then remember that I don’t like it at all.”

 

Mario hesitates before he walks out to join him, shifting from one foot to the other when he stops with reasonable distance to Marco. “I’m sorry if I –”

 

“Jesus, Mario,” Marco interrupts him, feeling his spikes go up unintentionally. “Please, stop apologising, I don’t want to hear it.”

 

“What else do you want me to say?” Mario steps forward, apparently done with treading softly around him. “I’m at a loss here, all right? Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll try. Do you want to take a swing at me? Because I won’t hit back if that’ll make you feel better.”

 

The cigarette glistens between his fingers and the smoke is so harsh it’s making his eyes water (at least that is the excuse he’s using). His nerves are stretched and he hopes that they’re not going to snap. He flicks ash off the tip and puts it to his lips again, breathing in through his teeth, breathing out through his nose. “There’s nothing. But that’s not what you want to hear, is it?” he says, looking Mario dead in the eye. “That’s the truth though. There is not a single thing you can do, or say, that will make me forget anything that’s happened. So you can stop trying.”

 

“I won’t,” Mario replies, not having lost an ounce of his stubbornness and Marco has no clue if he should hate him for that or –

 

Suddenly, Mario is right in front of him, taking the cigarette out of his hand and tossing it away. He’s far too close and although Marco’s anger doesn’t dissipate, he feels that familiar rush added to it, creeping up his spine and going to his head, almost intoxicating and lulling him into a thrumming stupor. Mario’s fingers skim across his jaw and settle on either side of his neck and apparently Marco is still stupid and he is still a fool, because he doesn’t do a single fucking thing about it. He’s spent ten years running and trying to get the fuck over Mario and yet here they are.

 

Mario sags forward against Marco’s chest and his breath hitches, tense and tight and he can sense Mario’s exhaustion from treading in the same fucking place and making no progress and he does what he’s always done when he wants Marco to go over the edge with him – he pushes. He pushes close, thumbs resting below Marco’s cheekbones, avoiding his eyes and Marco doesn’t think he could look Mario in the eyes at this point either. Then Marco feels the soft, asking, almost pleading press of lips at his jaw, and slowly trailing upwards, breaths hot and coming out short, pausing at the corner of his mouth and – yeah, Marco is a fool.

 

He brushes their closed lips together. The kiss is chaste, almost achingly so and they remain frozen in place for a few drawn-out seconds, eyes falling shut, until muscle memory kicks in and Marco’s limbs start moving on their own accord. He slings an arm around Mario’s shoulder, still strong but not as broad as they used to be, and the press of it against Mario’s neck tips his head and his mouth falls open.

 

Marco meets him halfway.

 

 

 

***

 

_Marco felt lost. While his professional career lifted off even more, his relationship got pushed to the cheap seats. He didn’t think that either he or Mario had anything specifically to do with that, but it happened nonetheless and all Marco could do was watch it happen. They had managed to spend two weeks alone, on holiday in Greece, far away from any prying eyes, but it had been short-lived peace. Once the league kicked off again, there was no time to see each other, barely any time to talk and before Marco knew it, Christmas was once again approaching and Mario decided to stay in Munich._

_They saw each other briefly at the Ballon d’Or Gala in Zurich, both making the FIFA XI, but missing out on the Golden Ball, which went to the usual suspect (Marco wasn’t upset, he’d never thought he’d get there in the first place)._

_Marco chewed and swallowed his anger when, until March, he only saw his boyfriend in magazine articles, speculating when he was going to pop the question to his utterly glamorous model-girlfriend. That one weekend they had to themselves in March was enough to hold on for the next couple of months, with league and Cup and Champions League games providing enough of a distraction, and he started hanging out with Caro more regularly. Reporters asked if they were back together, Marco said no, but nobody listened anyway._

_He kissed the tip of Mario’s nose once he’d closed the door behind him and leaned in for a quick kiss, then found himself trapped as Mario took a firm hold of his jumper and snatched his lower lip between his teeth to pull. He felt a jolt of electricity rolling down his spine; Mario’s bag fell to the floor with a thud, they stumbled over shoes scattered around until Marco could press Mario against the nearest wall to properly greet him._

_“No making out in the hallway, guys,” came a sudden call from the living room. “We can hear you!”_

_They broke apart with a laugh and just grinned widely at each other for a moment, and Marco felt the tension from not seeing Mario for weeks slip off of his shoulders like a blanket. He pressed a last, lingering kiss to Mario’s lips, then took his coat._

_“How’s the foot?” he asked, watching Mario kick off his sneakers._

_“Purple. I mean, actually purple.” He pulled a face as he shifted his weight onto his left leg. “Pretty sure you could see Monet’s water lilies if you squinted.”_

_“Poor baby.”_

_“Oh God,” Mario groaned in reply. “Don’t ever call me that.”_

_“You can call me baby if you want,” Kevin quipped from the armchair in the corner._

_Marco threw a pillow at him before retreating into the kitchen. “Don’t I get a kiss?” he heard Schmelle ask and smiled to himself when Mario shot back a hearty “fuck off”. He got an ice pack out of the freezer, grabbed another bottle of coke and made his way back, sitting down next to his boyfriend. Pulling Mario’s leg across his lap, he pressed the ice to the slightly swollen instep and curled his other hand around the ankle._

_“What are we watching?” Mario asked and reached for the popcorn. “Wait, no – guys, are you serious? Who watches Transformers?”_

_“We do,” Kevin said unimpressed, turning up the volume, and continued to munch on his crisps. “If you don’t agree with the movie choice, then – hey, you know what? Just suck it up.”_

_Mario turned to face Marco. “Can you throw them out?”_

_He patted Mario’s sympathetically. “Nope, sorry. I still have to see them at practice every day, you know?”_

_“Your contract runs out next year…”_

_Marco raised his brows at him. “So does yours,” and he knew better than to press further._

_They never talked about offers. Marco didn’t need to, because there was nothing to talk about. He had a contract with Dortmund and he didn’t want to leave and it didn’t matter how many millions Manchester United or AC Milan or Real Madrid waved at him and the club – he wasn’t leaving. He was going to sign an extension and then another one and then another one until he had to retire and tried not to think about the reasons Mario never mentioned anything._

_The season ended, and Dortmund – against surprisingly many odds including badly timed injuries, the flu and excruciating semi-final penalties – won the Champions League for the first time since 1997. Instead of enjoying the win, and the following weeks off, Marco spent the entire summer trying to avoid the press and innumerable paparazzi, and couldn’t do a fucking thing as his relationship started to fray around the edges._

***

 

 

“This is a bad idea,” but Marco forgets he’s said anything as soon as he opens his eyes and gets a look at Mario. Up close, he can see fine lines at the corners of his eyes, on his forehead and it hurts in a rather pathetic way that he wasn’t there to witness what put them there.

 

“I don’t care,” Mario says and his voice breaks off on the last syllable, and his lips – God, his lips, and Marco can’t help himself. He just has to lean in again, open-mouthed and desperate and so familiar as if not a single hour had passed between this kiss and their last. Mario’s hands have dropped to his waist, distractedly playing with the hem of his shirt. Marco wants to tell him to just rip the damn thing off; wants to grab Mario like he used to and shove him onto the nearest surface, just feel his body again, and breathe him in. He’s never wanted anyone as much as Mario in his entire life and he wants him now, probably never stopped, just buried deeply, and yet –

 

“No,” he manages to say. They’re still tightly pressed together and Marco feels dizzy with – “I mean it. This is a bad idea.” It takes most of his willpower to take a step back and the rest of it not to yank Mario close again. “Just – Jesus, you need to stop, all right?”

 

“I told you,” Mario replies and his face is still flushed, his arms still shaking slightly, “I can’t do that, because –”

 

“Nothing is going to make up for it,” Marco cuts him off. “Do you get that? Nothing you say or do is going to make me forget, or forgive you, and don’t fucking say a word now. You know what Kevin used to tell me? He said, you take all the shit he pulls and you just accept it and you forgive him and you move on. He asked me if there was anything you could do that would be unforgivable and I told him no. But you know what? There is something and I drew a damn line and I am not heading back across it.”

 

“I’m not asking you to go back. Hell, I don’t want to either.”

 

“Then what _do_ you want?” Marco calls out in frustration. “What’s the bloody point of this?”

 

“I don’t know,” Mario yells back, spreading his arms to underline it. “Moving forward, maybe? Fuck, I’m not asking you to forgive me, but is it so bad that I want us to move on? Because I’m sorry, I really am.”

 

“Sorry doesn’t cut it. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cut it!” Marco paces. He clenches and unclenches his fists and eventually tightly folds his arms in front of his chest, nails digging into his own ribcage to channel the tension he’s feeling. “You can’t expect that I’ll get over everything just because we had a chat and you apologised. I’m done with it, okay? I am just _done_.”

 

“Does that mean you’re done with me, too?”

 

It stops him short, deflates him, takes away the rising frustration bordering on anger and Marco is about ready to drop to his knees. He wonders distractedly if his heart is going to stop from having to go through so many different emotions in just a few, short minutes, from being put through the grinder even after almost twenty years of quenching everything out and demanding absolutely anything from it. Marco is exhausted, already, and he knows his nerves can’t take more after isolating himself for years, but he needs to get this out and over with.

 

“I was,” he tells Mario, not caring if he hurts him by voicing it; almost wanting it to hurt Mario, because Marco needs him to get it, to get the extent and the effects and to understand and he almost wants to yell again, _‘feel that? This is what you did to me’_. “I was so fucking done with you.” He hisses a breath in through his teeth. “But I’m here now, aren’t I? No fucking clue why. No fucking clue why you want me here either.” Marco doesn’t look at Mario, finds it hard to even keep talking, so he starts moving instead, moving past and hopefully back inside. “But I need some space, I need some fucking space.”

 

Feeling his vision blackening around the edges, Marco stumbles up the stairs. It’s not late, the sun is still high up in the sky, but he feels the sudden urge to lock himself away and sleep as if he hadn’t slept in ages. He knows he’s not having a panic attack, because he’s had a few in his life and this is nothing like it, but there is something gripping his insides in a cold fist, trying to pull them out through his throat, a rising, rippling anxiety that makes it difficult to form another coherent sentence. And Marco knows there is probably a solid reason for him to not even bother with undressing, but he has no time to think any further. He’s out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow.

_***_

_“I’m not angry,” Marco repeated for the tenth time in probably as many minutes. “I know there’s nothing behind it at all. I just think it’s too much. And I don’t understand why you’d agree to it.”_

_“If you’re not angry then why bring it up in the first place?” Mario sounded frustrated, like he didn’t get why Marco made a fuss, but that was the exact problem they’d been having lately and if this conversation was anything to go by, then they would most likely have this problem in the future as well. “They’re just pictures!”_

_“You’re kissing her,” Marco exclaimed more loudly than intended, because he wasn’t angry, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be pissed off. “All in fucking Lederhosen, playing the happy couple for the press. God!”_

_“D’you want me to come out instead? Tell Hoeneß and Sammer and the fucking BILD that I’m not taking anyone to the Oktoberfest this year because my boyfriend’s in Dortmund, playing for our biggest rivals?”_

_“Fuck you,” Marco said. “I love you, but seriously, fuck you.”_

_Mario sighed exasperatedly, and that alone was enough to make Marco’s blood boil these days. This wasn’t some petty hissy fit he was throwing because he felt like it. “Okay, sorry, that sounded –”_

_“Stupid?” Marco cut in. “Because that’s what it sounded like to me.” He took a deep breath, lowered his voice, fucking tired of shouting at Mario over the phone because that was all they’d been doing since coming back from France with yet another trophy to their names and even more media attention at their heels. “I know your agent thinks you still need her as an alibi, but you don’t, all right? I don’t want to force you to come out, and I don’t want to either, no way. But you don’t need a beard. Nobody cares. You’re UEFAs Player of the Year, you’ve won enough trophies to shut anyone up.”_

_“You really think that will ever be the case? That I can officially dump her and nobody would draw conclusions?”_

_Breathe, he thought, he needed to breathe. Marco rubbed a hand over his face and continued to pace around the living room. It was a miracle that his carpet was still intact. “Certainly not that one,” he couldn’t help but comment. “Since I don’t ever see you anyway.”_

_“And that is my fault?” Mario asked. “That is not fair, and you know it. I can’t control the fucking schedule, can I?”_

_“It isn’t fair either that I have to start my day being greeted by her damn face plastered to yours!”_

_He hadn’t been angry before, but he was now. Not even bothering to hang up, Marco tossed his phone across the room. It didn’t even have the decency to shatter, but instead bounced of the couch and landed on the carpet, thus doing nothing to release his tension. He turned rapidly, didn’t pay attention, and promptly allowed his shin to collide with his living room table. Letting out a row of curses that would’ve even made Kloppo blush, he rubbed his already reddening skin and felt the tense ache from his bone._

_“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he added heartily and allowed his eyes to water, kept still as a droplet crept out of a corner and rolled down his cheek. Marco wasn’t a crier; he usually raised his voice and, as evident, cursed a whole lot, but surprisingly, he cried more on the pitch than he did off of it. The pain was an excuse to grant himself a moment of guilt-free weakness._

_Marco turned his head again once his vision had cleared and eyed the phone lying on the ground. He knew that both he and Mario were too fucking proud to give in so easily, so quickly after an argument (which happened a lot, much to his dislike), but Marco also knew he couldn’t allow their relationship to crumble over immaturities and chewed-through arguments. So he swallowed his pride, and reached for his phone. Mario picked up after the first ring, but didn’t say a word._

_“I didn’t mean to hang up,” Marco told him quietly, relishing the sound of Mario’s breathing, slightly laboured, some creaking in the background, and he could practically see Mario sitting on one of those old wooden chairs he’d inherited from his grandmother, hand-painted and not at all fitting into the modern interior of his apartment, but of such sentimental value that they had found their place in the kitchen anyway. And he knew Mario was sitting there, head bowed, one elbow on his knee, probably in some old track pants and that green hoodie Marco had left intentionally._

_“I know,” Mario replied eventually, voice muffled because he was chewing on his lips, because he was trying not to cry (which he tended to do when he got upset or angry). “And I’m sorry. I’m not… I won’t do that again. I’ll get rid of her if you want me to.”_

_“It’s up to you,” Marco said, silently praying that Mario knew he was telling him to just fucking dump her already. He took another calming breath. “I love you.”_

_“I love you,” Mario echoed and Marco hoped that if they’d only assure themselves of that single fact, it would be enough. “I’ll see you next week, I promise.”_

_But one month later, there still was no break-up. And Marco still hadn’t seen him._

***

 

 

Marco wakes up in the middle of the night, which is no surprise at all. It’s just past two when he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and walks over to the armchair in the corner to change into his pyjama bottoms and strip off his shirt. He leaves the room, thirsty and bloody starving, since it’s been almost a day since he last had any food and heads downstairs. There’s a small light on in the kitchen. Mario is sitting at the island, arms folded on the counter and chin laying atop of them. He looks up when Marco pats across the floor, halting opposite of him.

 

“How’re you feeling?”

 

Marco shrugs, pulls up a chair and sits down. “Like I got hit by a freight train. You?”

 

“Sounds about right,” Mario says and just like that, it’s fine again, and Marco guesses it should probably piss him off, but it’s late, and he’s got a hole in his stomach that’s the size of freaking Australia.

 

They cook together in the semi-dark and it is so surreal, so detached from the real world, that Marco lets himself relax and he doesn’t stop to think. He doesn’t think about how they move around each other fluently and how everything slides into gear without even trying hard and the only sound that fills the house is water boiling on the stove and tomatoes sizzling in olive oil, the occasional clank as a spatula hits the brim of a pot. They eat with their plates in their laps in front of the TV, close but not yet touching and it is so domestic and feels so normal that Marco finds it hard to swallow.

 

For one painful, aching and gut-wrenching moment, Marco figures that this could’ve been theirs, that this could have been their life together, if odds hadn’t stood against them from the beginning. He only realised recently that they had never set out for success and of course, they had tried to hold on for as long as possible, but he knows now that it doesn’t work that way. You can’t hold on to anything that’s broken, because eventually, it’s going to shatter and crumble to dust in your own hands and you’re left with something that’s not even close to resembling what it once was. And if that something can only exist like they are existing now, cut off from the real world and only working when no outsiders can catch a glimpse at it – it’s bound to fail, isn’t it?

 

Moments like this, though, although being barely more than a shadow, make him understand why they had tried in the first place.

 

He feels Mario’s breath on his bare skin before he sees him move. “We don’t need to talk about it,” he says close to Marco’s ear, and Marco thinks Mario understands it too.

 

Marco twists his neck and their noses touch. This time, neither he nor Mario avoids the other’s eyes. This might not have any purpose, but it has intent and he is blindingly aware of what they’re doing and why they’re doing it.

 

Mario tastes like basil and red wine and despite the late hour, his skin is still warm, as if he’s storing sunlight right beneath it. He runs his hands up Mario’s arms until his fingertips hit cotton, not needing to pull him in because Mario is already crowding into his space and Marco already regrets not putting on a shirt. His breath hitches when Mario’s fingers skim over his ribs and tickle his skin just above the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, heat starting to spread through his core, body betraying his mind that is telling him what a bad idea this still is, regardless of the fact that it’s dark and that they aren’t planning on talking about it. Yet fatigue has apparently crippled Marco’s will to resist and right now, he needs to have that, if only to refresh his memory.

 

Mario topples them over, swings his other leg onto the couch and sits up. Marco bites down on his lips, hands coming to rest on Mario’s thighs where he can feel the still strong muscles twitch and tremble. He presses his thumb to the inseam, runs them up and down Mario’s legs, watches as his pupils dilate visibly even in the soft, orange light coming from the kitchen. Mario grabs them hem of his own shirt and yanks it over his head and Marco allows himself a moment to just drink everything in, more sinewy than muscly, so defined that the flickering TV screen throws dark shadows across Mario’s torso, and he chases them with the tips of his fingers.

 

It burns right behind Marco’s eyes when Mario lets his shirt fall to the carpet and plants his palms on either side of his face, so he surges up quickly, squeezes his eyes shut and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Mario’s lips. Marco feels his sigh as it his the back of his throat, the delicate brush of eyelashes against his cheeks, gone again after a moment as Mario adjusts his arms and guides them back onto the couch, one hand firmly placed at the small of Marco’s back, fingers sliding around the waistband of his trousers. He guesses they are both frustrated in so many different ways and there is not a single thought wasted on hesitant touches.

 

Marco has not been celibate in the years since Mario, but nothing and nobody has ever compared, wound him up as much, and heat quickly shoots to his groin, making him tremble with the rawest kind of need. Aligning their hips, he grabs a solid portion of flesh and when Mario opens his mouth in a groan, Marco latches onto his lower lip, pulls until he tastes copper. He swallows down the curse that rolls off Mario’s tongue and vertebra for vertebra he traces up Mario’s spine, pulling him as close as they haven’t been in a fucking decade. And Marco wants to wind his arms around him, wants to lift him up and carry him to bed and let their bodies intertwine and reconnect, just fuck him through dawn and dusk and never leave the confinements of this house, where he can at least pretend that all is forgiven and forgotten.

 

But it’s not. Realisation hits him like a cold shower and Marco remembers all at once how fucked up it is to be doing this, so he presses their lips together once more before settling back with labouring lungs and an erratic heartbeat, Mario still hot and shaking against him, but calming down. They keep breathing, they keep their eyes clothes and when the first soft, grey light spills over them like a thin blanket, they get up and don’t say a single word.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_Marco would like to think that it crept up on them; that it jumped at them from a dark corner and there’d been no way that they could have seen it coming. The sad and bitter and heartbreaking fact was that they did see it coming a mile away. There was really no excuse to not see it and neither Marco nor Mario were people who looked the other way when something was so blatantly obvious. What Marco couldn’t decide was if that made it better or worse. He was quite frankly awfully unable to assess his state of mind, because none of it felt real at all and for a while, he was praying that one day he’d wake up and find that Mario was still with him in Dortmund, that they were still young with the best still to come, and it made him feel foolish and immature and it didn’t help at all._

_Marco saw it coming, but that didn’t mean he fully understood how it had happened. He guessed that it was a toxic combination of bad timing, unfortunate circumstances and their own stupidity and stubbornness. Brazil had been the pinnacle and the European Cup was their cherry on top and they proved week after week that they were indeed a golden generation, yet somewhere he and Mario had lost sight of one another and although they were facing each other in the dim light of their hotel room overlooking the Red Square, so tired and exhausted that Marco’s bones were aching, in dire need of rest before flying to Berlin early in the morning to present the trophy that had defended by the smallest of margins – Marco felt like he barely recognised Mario anymore. It made him sad more than anything, and it weighed heavier than weeks of giving two hundred per cent on the pitch to create a miracle._

_They had won everything possible and Marco figured it was time to think of more._

_“I can’t do it,” he said, sounding strained, like he’d swallowed a sack of nails. “Not like this. Not if we clearly have different priorities right now.”_

_“What makes you say that?” Mario asked him and apparently Mario really didn’t know, perhaps because they hadn’t talked about it like that before. They rarely talked to each other these days._

_“Because that’s how it is,” Marco replied with nerves curling around in his stomach, making him feel ill from his very core. “I know you’ve had offers, I know you want to leave Munich, but instead of coming back home, suddenly there’s Juventus and Arsenal and Manchester United and Barcelona and –” He had to cut himself off to swallow around a lump that had suddenly risen up his throat. “I want to take the next steps with you, but I can’t do that if you keep putting more distance between us.”_

_Mario scoffed. “So it’s all my fault, as always. You’re the faithful boyfriend and I’m the selfish prick who doesn’t give a fuck about our relationship. Sure, not like we will have the rest of our lives together once we retire or anything…”_

_“So you want this to stay exactly the way it is, for another five years? Ten, maybe? See each other every other week, if we’re lucky and only for a day or two?”_

_“What other choice do we have?”_

_Marco got up so rapidly that his chair fell over and collided with the floor with a loud clank. “Come back to Dortmund!” he called out. “What is so fucking difficult about that? Why on earth is that the only scenario you refuse to even consider?”_

_“Because I don’t want to, okay?” Mario yelled, because that was where they were at now, shouting and yelling and desperate frustration. “I don’t want to go back! I want to move forward.”_

_“So do I!” He let out a frustrated sigh. “But I want to move forward with you. If you don’t-”_

_“Don’t,” Mario interrupted him. “Don’t give me an ultimatum, don’t you fucking dare.” He started pacing and Marco watched as he moved across the carpet, heart sitting right at the bottom of his throat, rapidly swelling and growing in size, making it nearly impossible to breathe. “Okay, can we,” Mario started and turned, approached Marco so quickly that he almost flinched back instinctively, “can we just stop, please? We don’t have to fight, and I don’t want to, all right? I really don’t want to talk about this now,” and he lifted his hands, to reach out, to touch, to hold, and at that moment Marco did flinch._

_“We never talk about this,” he exclaimed, stopped after taking one step back because his legs felt too weak to move farther. “We never talk about anything at all! That’s the fucking problem. You don’t tell me what’s going on and if I ask, you don’t answer. I am trying, Mario. I am, but I just don’t know what the hell you’re thinking, what I’m supposed to think and what we’re even doing anymore.”_

_“You don’t trust me.”_

_Marco sighed in defeat. “It’s not like that. I just – I don’t know if you and I want the same things.”_

_“That’s bullshit. You’re talking complete bullshit. What the fuck, Marco, do you want us to break up?”_

_Their eyes met in the middle and Marco almost choked on his own tongue. He was terrified; there was no other description. All of a sudden, entirely out of the blue, he was completely and utterly terrified and he looked at Mario, looked at his red eyes and set jaw, and was afraid of the outcome._

_“I don’t. But I think we need some time. Figure things out. On our own.” The words spilled out of his mouth and the second they did, Marco regretted them._

_Mario’s eyes widened just a small fraction. “Fuck you. Just – fuck you, Marco. You damn – God, first you want to talk and now – what? I don’t bloody need to figure anything out, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because apparently you can’t believe me when I tell you that I want this, I want us, and why the hell do I need to show commitment? What’s the point if everything I do is wrong anyway?”_

_This was just all wrong and Marco didn’t get how everything had gone off the rails so quickly. He wanted to throw the towel and hug Mario close, bury his face in the crook of Mario’s neck and breathe him in, go to sleep with their bodies feeding off each other’s warmth, but seeing how agitated and angry Mario was getting, it would probably land him a fist to his jaw if he went anywhere near him._

_“You’re twisting my words,” he tried, and he also tried to remain calm. “You’re not getting what I mean and –”_

_“Oh, I get it just fine, thanks,” Mario broke him off. He was looking at Marco like he’d never looked at him before and it floored him, as if someone had literally taken away the ground beneath his feet, and he stopped breathing. “It doesn’t matter what I do. Maybe you just don’t want me, and that’s it.”_

_“No, I –”_

_But Mario wasn’t even paying attention to him anymore. “You want space, time? Fine. I can give you all the space and time in the world. Because I’m pulling the plug. I’m done.” And with that he walked past Marco, shoulders bumping together just lightly, but it still threw Marco entirely off balance and he blacked out for a second, not longer, just long enough to refrain from doing anything to stop Mario from walking out of that door. When the lock clicked shut, his mind stopped working._

***

 

 

Breakfast is awkward. In fact, it is the very definition of awkward. Marco comes downstairs after a long, cold shower he tries not to think about as he does so, and for the shortest moment he is so very tempted to walk over to Mario, who is sitting at the counter with a newspaper and a steaming cup of coffee, frame his slightly stubbled face and kiss him good morning (it used to be a habit, and it feels a lifetime away, but also like he’s never stopped). He thinks Mario would let him, would welcome it and encourage him, probably press him against the counter with his body, smelling of soap and shampoo, and that is the point Marco has to mentally shut himself up.

 

He clears his throat and Mario looks up, pushes a cup towards him with a stiff smile, and for a second he appears to be wanting to say something, but he thinks better of it and stays quiet, redirecting his attention to some article, fingers playing with the edges of the paper. Marco empties his coffee while it’s still too hot, leaving his mouth feeling slightly raw, but he speaks up anyway, can’t bear another minute of unresolved silence.

 

“Perhaps I should go.”

 

Mario lifts his head again, eyes wide. “Why?”

 

Marco shrugs. “Because I still don’t think that this,” and he makes a non-committal wave with his hand, “is a good idea.”

 

“And I still think that I will keep the right to disagree with you on that,” Mario replies, folding his arms on the table. “I would like you to stay.”

 

“Okay, I just –”

 

“No,” Mario says, “listen. Don’t overthink it. You can stay as my friend and you don’t need to think about anything else. We can just… hang out.”

 

Marco’s lips twitch. “Hang out? How old do you think we are?”

 

The smile Mario sends him this time is bright and honest. “Well, we’re certainly not dead yet. We’ve got plenty of time ahead of us,” and maybe Marco imagines the wistful edge to his words and maybe he doesn’t. “We’ve still got plenty of time.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

_Marco didn’t remember what happened between Mario leaving the hotel room and André finding him on the floor of the bathroom, back against the shower stall, with a sore throat and dinner and drinks flushed down the toilet. André had to ask him what happened numerous times as he lifted his exhausted body off the floor and it took Marco a long while to process the words directed at him. He guessed he muttered a monotonous “we broke up” before shutting out the world again and it remained shut for a week, perhaps even two and in those two weeks he had a couple of the guys sticking to him like flies stuck to honey, concerned and he figured shocked as well, and Marco couldn’t react much. It took all his self-control and willpower to get through interviews and a handful of appearances and he did everything possible to keep all the shattered pieces together._

_He didn’t talk to Mario. He tried not to look at him too much because it still didn’t feel real and he wasn’t ready for it to sink in just yet. At first, everyone was baffled, then they tried to force them to sit together, but eventually, their teammates gave up._

_When Marco got home, he locked the front door, dropped his bags, walked into the bedroom on autopilot and fell face forward into the sheets._

_He didn’t leave his bed for three days._

_Eventually, people came by and tried to get him to talk, but Marco didn’t want to. Talking had lead to this and he was determined to shut his trap for as long as he could. But the stupid thing was – he knew that he was still able to turn this around. He was absolutely certain that he could get into his car and drive to Munich and apologise and they would take everything back and be together again. But Marco didn’t want to apologise. Because in spite of the heat of the argument and things being said with more venom and words getting lost somewhere in the middle, it remained true that he didn’t trust Mario to put their relationship first. And, lying in his dark bedroom with nobody disrupting his thoughts, Marco realised that he couldn’t even blame Mario for that, couldn’t even be angry with him, because he realised with no little irony that he probably hadn’t put their relationship first either. But how could they have done it? The next logical steps weren’t exactly applicable to them. Buying a house, getting married, having kids; it wasn’t part of the plan and it never had been and Marco figured that they should have thought about that sooner._

_He wondered if there was a friendship to salvage._

_He wondered if that massive hole in his chest was visible from the outside._

_When he twisted his ankle during the second training session of the new season, Marco was convinced that he had pretty much it rock bottom and that was ironic as well, because he didn’t have the slightest clue that rock bottom was still miles away. And that he was going to get there soon enough._

***

 

 

It’s a shame, it really is, but Marco doesn’t remember much good from Russia. All that comes to mind these days is the almost unbearable pressure, stress and fatigue from having barely recovered from a hamstring injury in time for the tournament, missing out on two important matches as a result of it and having to sit through the most horrible penalty shootout of his career; fucking up his relationship and as a result losing the one person who had mattered to him the most for almost a decade. Looking back on it now, Marco still finds it hard to grasp how rapidly they’d fallen apart.

 

He lies awake all night, finding no rest, mind occupied by all the things that happened as a result of a fight that had escalated for no reason in a matter of seconds. Marco knows that Mario just reacted; that they weren’t so young anymore but still immature in many ways and he forgave Mario about five minutes after he’d stormed out the door. He doesn’t know why he’d been too stubborn to do anything.

 

But he knows that’s not the reason why he’s avoided Mario for ten years (and vice versa, although it certainly didn’t aid the case).

 

Shrugging on a thin sweater, Marco heads downstairs to find his shoes, then goes out the back and through the garden where the grass is wet and he needs to slow down not to accidentally slip as he walks downhill. He follows the path that leads through the maze of pine trees, woodwork so solid and dense that only a hint of weak light is speckled across the soil. The air is sharp when he takes a deep breath and he finds that the smell is already familiar to him, that his mind draws an instant connection to Mario and his home and Marco is sure he won’t be able to undo that, now suddenly isn’t sure if he wants to anymore. Because walking away from everything the first time had been hard enough. Doing it all over again… Marco is just tired. He doesn’t think he’s got the endurance to cut Mario out of his life a second time. And he hasn’t even been here that long. Marco knows he needs to make a choice sooner rather than later if he wants to have a choice at all.

 

The path comes to an abrupt end and Marco stills as pebbles break through the water’s surface with soft splashes. It’s a lake, but only a small one; so small Marco hadn’t been able to see it from the house. The trees continue right until the very edge, roots stretching towards and digging into the water, growing dark moss that contributes to an almost unnaturally brilliant turquoise colour. He sits down on the damp grass and for a moment he’s tempted to take off his shoes and socks and see if the water is as cool as it looks, but he doesn’t. Instead he lets his eyes wander, sees some houses on the other shore, nestled between the trees, and the bluish silhouette of the alps in the far distance.

 

_I could get used to this_ , he thinks and surprises himself with that. He’s seen the most beautiful and breathtaking landscapes and sceneries in the world and while he’s always been able to appreciate them, Marco never felt the desire to stay. And he knows what the means, he is not an idiot and he’s not blind. A younger version of him might’ve told him that there was only one thing that mattered. But Marco has learned the hard way that that’s not the case. It’s more completed than that. It is _far_ more complicated. They’re both not who they used to be. They’ve led very different lives for the past ten years. Marco can’t just overlook that.

 

He’s not an optimist anymore.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_It was Kevin’s idea. Kevin who looked at Marco some time in November and said, “You need go out”. Marco was still a couple of weeks away from full fitness and he was in a bad place emotionally and physically, so he allowed Kevin to drag him out of his flat (dressed in jeans for the first time in ages) to meet up with some people they knew from back in the days, Ahlen and the Dortmund youth. It was surprisingly easy to let go of everything once they’d sat down, had a beer or two. He forgot that he was a World Champion and shortlisted for the Ballon d’Or and that almost every person in Germany and scarily many in the world knew who he was. And that had probably been his first mistake._

***

 

 

Digging his fingers into the grass and relishing the sensation of cold morning dew wetting his skin, Marco has to admit that he’s grown quite bitter; he’s become sceptical and cynical and there aren’t many people he trusts. He’s spent years nurturing a thick skin and building walls and he can’t knock them down. Perhaps insert a small door, but he doesn’t know whether he should let Mario in or not. Marco doesn’t particularly trust his judgement when it comes to Mario.

 

Rustling behind him makes Marco turn his head and thinking of the devil, he sees Mario walking towards him, wearing sneakers, shorts and a hooded sweatshirt.

 

“Did you follow me?” he asks when Mario comes to a halt next to him.

 

Mario lowers himself to the ground, draws his legs in and places his forearms on his bare knees. “Not at first,” he answers, looking ahead and not at Marco. “I was going to go for a run, then I saw you heading out. I can leave though, if you want me to.”

 

“It’s your property.”

 

“Technically it’s Italy’s.” Mario smiles at him hesitantly. “My property ended about ten yards from here.”

 

Marco refrains from rolling his eyes, from smiling although he can feel his mouth twitch. He pulls at a loose thread from his jumper and lowers his gaze, focuses on it because Mario’s presence has jumbled the thoughts in his head and he needs a minute to reorganise them all. And because despite everything that’s happened they still know each other’s tics and habits, Mario doesn’t say anything, just sits there, waits patiently; a solid presence, frighteningly similar to the anchor Marco probably needs.

 

“I don’t blame you for everything,” he eventually starts and feels Mario’s eyes on him. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “And I don’t want you to think it’s all your fault. Because it’s not. I just… I haven’t really managed to face up to the fact that it’s probably mostly mine.”

 

“What – I don’t understand.”

 

“I got drunk that night,” Marco confesses and he really wants to smack himself in the face. “Everything was just falling apart and we went out and I… For a couple of hours, I just wanted to be like the other guys, I didn’t want to care and so I didn’t. So I pretty much dug my own grave, because I was reckless, and stupid, and I probably had it coming.”

 

“That’s bullshit,” Mario tells him, but Marco shakes his head.

 

“It’s not. Kevin was there, he asked if I wanted to go home and I told him no and I can’t –” He breaks off with a joyless laugh. “You know, it’s like irony slapped me in the face, because I can’t even remember most of the evening. I keep going back to it, and I try to pinpoint one moment where I could’ve changed everything, but I can’t, because it’s all a blur. So maybe I deserved it.”

 

Suddenly, there is a hand on his, surprisingly forceful, squeezing his fingers.

 

“You didn’t, all right? It was just a big shitload of bad luck. It could’ve been anyone. Hell, it could’ve easily been me.”

 

Marco shrugs. “But it wasn’t. I guess that’s ironic as well. That they caught me after a fucking decade and it wasn’t even with you.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

_He saw Tobi before he saw anyone else. It came as a surprise, despite sharing a similar circle of friends during their relationship, and he couldn’t decide on the spot whether it was a good or a bad one. He’d changed, but not too much. Different haircut, more tasteful clothes, aged (in a good way). When they greeted each other, there was only a little awkwardness involved and it dissipated quickly._

_They started to chat, since Marco was genuinely interested and the first beer had loosened his tongue. Tobi was working as an engineer in developing countries, just back from a yearlong job in India and Marco found that he still enjoyed his company and talking to him and with the right amount of alcohol, he felt the tension roll off his shoulders, getting replaced by building attraction and the desire to get over a certain someone who was still on his mind every fucking second. Kevin left halfway through the night, because he was fit and had a training session early the following morning, so Marco stayed and he stayed until the end, until he, Tobi and a few remaining guys stumbled out of the bar to make their way home._

_Somehow, he and Tobi ended up heading into the same direction and Marco didn’t stop to wonder if that was intentional or accidental. He wouldn’t have cared. It was already past three in the morning and since it was a Thursday, the streets were empty. Tobi walked closer than necessary and Marco didn’t move away and when they were in front of his building, Tobi leaned in to kiss him, and Marco let him. Tobi stopped, and because Marco was drunk, and he felt reckless, he pulled Tobi close again._

_Marco didn’t ask him to spend the night. He didn’t kiss Tobi again after that. He didn’t think anyone was still out at this time of night and he didn’t see the camera go off._

_But he did see the pictures splattered across every front page the next morning._

***

 

 

“I was so hungover when I woke up. I think it was almost noon and I had no idea what was going on, or why there were twenty new messages on my phone and over a hundred missed calls. So many texts asking if I was okay, or what the hell I was thinking. One from my manager saying ‘check your emails’.” Marco huffs out a dry laugh. “And then there it was. Cover of the fucking BILD. _Outed_. Not a very imaginative headline, but I guess the picture spoke for itself.”

 

Mario stays quiet and Marco is thankful for it. He’s never really talked to anyone about it. It had just happened to him and there’d been no time to sit down and talk much about anything but how to combat the media, the fans, everyone.

 

“At first, I couldn’t even remember that I’d kissed him. For a few, blissful minutes I thought it was a fake. And that I could tell that to anyone who asked. But it wasn’t. And it wasn’t rumours either. It was a solid photograph; dark, but not pixelated. And there was just no fucking way I could have gotten out of this.”

 

“You disappeared for a couple of days,” Mario remembers.

 

“I did. Went to my parents’ place in the middle of the night and didn’t leave. Didn’t know what to do, and it’s not like I could’ve done anything to begin with. I think for the first couple of days everyone just tried to keep the media at bay. But it just spread like a wildfire,” he sighs. “It sounds wrong, but I was so damn glad I was still injured and Kloppo had a reason not to name me in the squad.”

 

“Kloppo wouldn’t have cared,” Mario tells him, full well knowing that Marco is perfectly aware of that.

 

“Yeah, he didn’t. He was the first to come by, actually, Sunday after the match. Jesus, I even remember that we were playing Hertha, and that Nuri scored the only goal,” he trails off and shakes his head once more. “Anyway. He came by, and I’ve never ever seen him look more disappointed. Not because of what happened but… that I didn’t tell him. That I hadn’t trusted him enough to trust him with that, he told me, and I felt like shit.”

 

Marco rubs his free hand across his face, but that image of his coach, almost father figure, standing in his parents’ living room, looking like he’d aged years overnight – that’s not something he’s likely to forget soon. Kloppo had hugged him tightly, and then he’d handed Marco a contract extension. He hadn’t had to renew for another year, but his coach had told him the club wanted to make a statement and Marco had never felt more grateful.

 

“I wanted to ignore it,” he continues, feeling the tightness in his chest that had gripped him back them, forcing him into rigour. “Then I wanted to quit. Then deny it, wave it off, as a joke, a bet, but that would’ve meant lying. Actual, outright lying, not just bending the truth.”

 

“So you issued a statement,” Mario says. His hand is still warm and solid on Marco’s, holding him in place without much force.

 

“My agent did. I just said I didn’t want any frills. No comment on anything else. I’m gay, full stop.”

 

“But it wasn’t that simple,” Mario adds.

 

“When is it ever?” Marco replies, finally lifting his head to look him in the eye and it hits him again, like a slap. Looking at Mario know, sharing this with him after a decade and it feels good and he knows it would have felt good then, but – ”I knew it would be bad. But I don’t think my brain had the capacity to actually understand to what extent.”

 

 

_to be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco spends his retirement running away until he can't anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's done. It's actually done. Sorry it took so long, life's been mad. Please enjoy. Don't be shy with the feedback.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is all fiction. I don't own anything or anyone. If I did, I'd drag Mario back to Dortmund by his ears.

  
_A few times in my life I’ve had moments of absolute clarity. [...] They pull me back to the present, and I realize that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be._

**Christopher Isherwood, _A Single Man_**   


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“I was so hungover when I woke up. I think it was almost noon and I had no idea what was going on, or why there were twenty new messages on my phone and over a hundred missed calls. So many texts asking if I was okay, or what the hell I was thinking. One from my manager saying ‘check your emails’.” Marco huffs out a dry laugh. “And then there it was. Cover of the fucking BILD. _Outed_. Not a very imaginative headline, but I guess the picture spoke for itself.”

 

Mario stays quiet and Marco is thankful for it. He’s never really talked to anyone about it. It had just happened to him and there’d been no time to sit down and talk much about anything but how to combat the media, the fans, everyone.

 

“At first, I couldn’t even remember that I’d kissed him. For a few, blissful minutes I thought it was a fake. And that I could tell that to anyone who asked. But it wasn’t. And it wasn’t rumours either. It was a solid photograph; dark, but not pixelated. And there was just no fucking way I could have gotten out of this.”

 

“You disappeared for a couple of days,” Mario remembers.

 

“I did. Went to my parents’ place in the middle of the night and didn’t leave. Didn’t know what to do, and it’s not like I could’ve done anything to begin with. I think for the first couple of days everyone just tried to keep the media at bay. But it just spread like a wildfire,” he sighs. “It sounds wrong, but I was so damn glad I was still injured and Kloppo had a reason not to name me in the squad.”

 

“Kloppo wouldn’t have cared,” Mario tells him, full well knowing that Marco is perfectly aware of that.

 

“Yeah, he didn’t. He was the first to come by, actually, Sunday after the match. Jesus, I even remember that we were playing Hertha, and that Nuri scored the only goal,” he trails off and shakes his head once more. “Anyway. He came by, and I’ve never ever seen him look more disappointed. Not because of what happened but… that I didn’t tell him. That I hadn’t trusted him enough to trust him with that, he told me, and I felt like shit.”

 

Marco rubs his free hand across his face, but that image of his coach, almost father figure, standing in his parents’ living room, looking like he’d aged years overnight – that’s not something he’s likely to forget soon. Kloppo had hugged him tightly, and then he’d handed Marco a contract extension. He hadn’t had to renew for another year, but his coach had told him the club wanted to make a statement and Marco had never felt more grateful.

 

“I wanted to ignore it,” he continues, feeling the tightness in his chest that had gripped him back them, forcing him into rigour. “Then I wanted to quit. Then deny it, wave it off, as a joke, a bet, but that would’ve meant lying. Actual, outright lying, not just bending the truth.”

 

“So you issued a statement,” Mario says. His hand is still warm and solid on Marco’s, holding him in place without much force.

 

“My agent did. I just said I didn’t want any frills. No comment on anything else. I’m gay, full stop.”

 

“But it wasn’t that simple,” Mario adds.

 

“When is it ever?” Marco replies, finally lifting his head to look him in the eye and it hits him again, like a slap. Looking at Mario know, sharing this with him after a decade and it feels good and he knows it would have felt good then, but – ”I knew it would be bad. But I don’t think my brain had the capacity to actually understand to what extent.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

_Marco minimised his focus. He plugged out his TV and his laptop, disabled the Internet connection on his phone and didn’t leave his flat except for rehabilitation training, and only through the underground car park of his building. Paparazzi camped outside, and in front of the training centre, and most likely everywhere he could be going, which is why he didn’t go anywhere. The club handled it all, brilliantly in fact, but for the following weeks, it seemed to Marco like the entire country was talking about him, and just him. Borussia Dortmund issued statements, so did the DFB and Kloppo, Watzke, Löw and so many others separately. And Marco was grateful._

_But mostly, he was just pissed off. Because he wasn’t a political statement. He wasn’t a thing people should have opinions of and he certainly didn’t need to be discussed like a limping animal some people wanted to shoot and others wanted to save. Marco didn’t want either. He didn’t want people talking about him at all, and he definitely didn’t want to talk to anyone about being ‘out and proud’, because it was nobody’s business._

_He carried his anger around like a dead weight on his shoulders._

_People suddenly thought they were entitled to decide whether he was allowed to exist or not. They thought it was his duty to answer even the stupidest questions because he dared to be different. They wanted him to stand in front of everyone without complaining, without moving, as they slowly tried to pick him apart, piece by fucking piece._

_Marco guessed he was supposed to be the poster boy. They wanted to point at him and say: see, he’s gay, and he can play football because he’s won two World Cups, and we accept him. But he knew that was the only reason anyone cut him any slack; because it would’ve been hypocritical to praise him before and condemn him after. The club really meant it, maybe Jogi too, but everybody else was just trying to make themselves look good._

_Phone calls with DFB officials, trying to coax him into interviews and press conferences and campaigns and pep talks when he just wanted to be left alone, because it was suffocating him. Marco was already having nightmares thinking about being back at one hundred per cent and stepping out onto the pitch and having to listen to reporters wondering whether he’d taken it up the ass the night before just because his aim was slightly off. So he didn’t sleep, and he didn’t eat much, therefore eliminating the option of a quick return, making him wonder whether he should laugh or cry about it._

_His teammates tried to help (and Marco had told them that they could do that best by continuing as if nothing had happened), so did friends and family. His mother unknowingly contributed to his misery, thinking it would boost his spirit to read all the good things people said about him, to see all the encouragement that was out there (next to the hate)._

_Platini, Zidane, Klinsmann, Bierhoff, Mourinho… everybody wanted to share their words of wisdom. Teammates offered words of support before and after every match – in Kevin’s case those words were “Fuck you”, directed at a reporter who’d overstepped a line._

_Weeks passed, Christmas and the New Year came and went, and Marco got voted into third place for the Ballon d’Or, but he didn’t attend the ceremony._

_Mario won the golden ball, and he remained the only person who didn’t say a single word. And that hurt more than anything._

***

 

 

“Why?” Marco asks him directly, because it’s been burning in the back of his mind for ten bloody years, and he thinks this is the moment to get his answer. “I just don’t understand how you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. Just – anything. Everyone thought you were my best friend. Hell, you _were_ my best friend before we were anything else and yet you just –” He takes in a rattling breathe, tears his hand out of Mario’s grasp. “You acted like you didn’t give a flying fuck about me until the day I retired and you never had to see me again!” And there it is, finally, out there in the open and for Mario to take and do whatever the hell he wants to with it, because it’s his turn now. “You want us to move on?” he continues. “Go on. Why?”

 

Mario’s hand is still on the ground close to Marco’s hip. He lifts it up, brushes water and grass off of it and runs it through his hair, keeping his gaze lowered. “Do you know what I thought when I first saw these pictures?” he starts eventually after a few silent beats.

 

“Thank fuck that’s not me?” Marco offers sharply.

 

Mario just shakes his head. “No. I thought: he’s found someone else; he doesn’t want me back. And I was so fucking jealous. I wanted to drive to Dortmund and fucking kill that bastard. But I didn’t. I don’t know why, I just… I completely worked myself up into a frenzy and I thought maybe he was the reason you wanted a break and that he was the reason we’d grown apart and I just got paranoid about the entire thing,” and he pauses, takes a deep breath but still doesn’t look at Marco. “I thought I’d be the last person you’d want to hear from,” he says, and then their eyes meet.

 

“You were the only one who would’ve mattered,” Marco tells him and it’s the truth. While the support he got was more than he could’ve asked for, only Mario’s would have truly meant something to him. “I needed you. Fuck, that was the one time I truly needed you and no matter what had happened between us, you should’ve been there for me, and you weren’t, not even as a friend.”

 

“I wanted to be!” Mario exclaims and Marco can see his own frustration mirrored in Mario’s face. “Fuck, Marco, you have to believe me, I did. But I thought you’d moved on and there was someone else who supported you and the sheer thought of some other guy being in your life killed me! And I was a coward, and stupid on top of that, and when I found out months later that there wasn’t anybody – I thought it was too late.”

 

“It wasn’t,” Marco throws back at him. “That’s the most absurd part of this. God, Mario, I am not proud of it, but I would’ve forgiven you on the spot. I would’ve forgiven you ten years ago, five, three… but –”

 

“Not anymore?” and fuck, he sounds heartbroken and it tears right through Marco’s chest. “I fucked up, all right? I fucked up beyond repair and it’s my own bloody fault that we didn’t spend the last years together like we should have, but this can’t be it,” he pleads and suddenly, his hand is cold and slightly damp against the skin of Marco’s neck, putting soft but determined pressure on it and Marco is right there with him, pressing their lips together, feeding off each other’s overflowing emotions and they cling to each other out there by this small lake in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but pine trees, pouring their hearts out.

 

“We were supposed to be together,” Mario whispers into his mouth. “We were and we are and you know it.“

 

“But that’s not enough,” Marco manages to press out, lungs burning, lips seeking out Mario’s on instinct and he wants to capture them once more, like a starved man stretching towards a drop of water, but Mario punches his chest.

 

“It fucking is,” and then he pulls Marco close again, fingers skimming around his face, cupping his jaw until their gazes lock. “I need you to stop being rational, okay? Because I can’t let you leave again.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

_Kloppo, bless him, had the foresight to sub Marco on during a home game after his return from injury, when they were playing against Freiburg and already 2-0 up. There was applause from the home crowd that gave Marco chills and if there were any hostile chants, he didn’t hear them. And over the next couple of weeks, the club did everyone in their power to shield Marco off to the best of their abilities. Only selected journalists were allowed at the press conferences; journalists who wouldn’t ask the wrong questions. At the first conference Marco attended after his unwanted and public outing, one or two tiptoed around the subject, but were quickly shut down by club officials and a solid glare from Kloppo._

_Away games were a different matter, but Marco had suspected it to be worse. He figured that any German football fan was still grateful for his international performances, and honestly, he could stomach the odd chants of ‘faggot’ from opposing fans, and any banner was quickly torn down. But then again, there were Champions League games ahead of them, against AC Milan, and Marco knew that Italian fans weren’t known for their tolerance._

_Yet Marco got through it. Somehow, and most of the time he couldn’t even say how, he came out of everything unscathed. Bloody but unbowed, as they said, and in all honesty, the worse part wasn’t football – it was everything around it. The talk, and the shows, the magazines, the fucking blog posts and the fact that nobody followed. Marco remained the only player outed in all of Europe. And he knew that people expected him to set an example. Perhaps get gay-married and adopt children from Vietnam and talk about his personal struggle and being honest with himself and how everyone still loved and supported him. He knew he was supposed to turn this nightmare into something good._

_But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t, because he’d spent almost eight years being so desperately in love with someone who had apparently forgotten all about him, and Marco found it difficult to feel anything other then sorry for himself for the better part of a year._

_He had nightmares about finally agreeing to an interview and being asked about past relationships and not having the ability to give one decent answer. Marco usually woke up, soaked in sweat, and more often than not, he barely made it to the bathroom before he sent his dinner down the pipes._

_No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get over Mario._

_Sometimes he wondered if he even wanted to._

_Marco took it as a sign that Mario didn’t attend the next national call-up due to a back injury. Everyone looked at him with pity, patted him on the back with sympathetic smiles, and he considered himself lucky when Jogi didn’t pull him aside for a chat, but actually continued as if nothing had happened._

_Toni came up to him on their first day and started, “Mario’s not –”_

_“I know he’s not coming,” Marco cut him off, but Toni shook his head._

_“No, I mean, he is not –”_

_“Save it.” He didn’t let Toni finish. “I don’t care, all right? I really don’t care.” And that was it._

_Marco kept his head down, worked his ass off, and stuck to his usual crowd of people. They played England in a friendly two days later, with ‘cocksuckers’ ringing around the stadium, and the actual highlight of everything when Erik, during the halftime break, calmly proclaimed, “I’d rather suck cock than be English.”_

***

 

 

Marco stumbles back up the hill. His lungs are burning and so are his eyes, in fact. Mario isn’t following him and for once, Marco isn’t glad, because he wants Mario to follow, to grab and stop him and to show that he wants Marco, really wants him this time around, but with a twist in his chest Marco realises that he has no right to demand that, no right to ask anything from Mario, because…

 

Because he blamed Mario for ten years and expected him to apologise and beg for forgiveness when he’s equally to blame. If not more. Marco fucked up just as much, and at least Mario is willing to own up to that whereas he just – he runs away. Again and again and all over again and it’s gotten to a point where Marco fears he can’t stop doing it. He fears he’s going to run from this too, because he’s just as incapable of facing this as he was when all this shit started. But knowing that other choices would have been better is of no use to him now.

 

Marco knows that he should have done just one stupid interview, one or two of the publicity things the DFB asked him to do; not be the poster boy, but be some kind of support. Be out and, perhaps not exactly that proud, but at least confident. Looking back on it now, Marco feels like such a fucking coward.

 

 

***

 

 

_The media moved on. Eventually. There were always other dramas, other scandals that needed to be taken apart; underage prostitutes, cheating husbands and girlfriends and the latest spat between coaches and players. But even if Marco wasn’t the centre of attention anymore, he’d always be the gay one. Didn’t matter what he had achieved in his career so far, that one description would forever precede everything else._

_Others followed. Not many, just a few, and only in Europe. Marco didn’t pay too close attention and there was certainly no club founded and no numbers exchanged or regular meetings. It wasn’t exactly a revolutionary movement. Marco didn’t think that a lot changed._

_News reached him that Mario would leave Munich and move on to Turin and he played like a magician, won a second Ballon d’Or and Marco –_

_He just… did what he’d always done. He focused on football, kept playing, won the league another time, the following year the German Cup and the Champions League for a second time and although he was more prone to injuries than he’d been the years before, he was physically fine._

_But Marco was tired. He was tired, and so bloody exhausted that he didn’t have the words to voice it to anyone and he remembered a time when football had been so much fucking fun and he didn’t hate it these days, but it’d become a routine, with the odd spark of excitement that didn’t really catch any fire because there was nobody he could’ve shared it with._

***

 

 

Marco guesses that Mario really does go for a run. It takes another two hours before he comes through the door, red faced and sweaty and out of breath and Marco feels his throat tighten up when Mario grabs a towel from the guest toilet and wipes it across his face. His Adam’s apple moves up and down a couple of time before he manages to speak.

 

“A couple of friends are coming by tonight,” he tells Marco quietly, hesitantly, “for the Champions League semis, you know?”

 

And Marco doesn’t, because he hasn’t kept up with football for five years. He doesn’t even know what teams have made it to the semi finals this year. “Okay,” he says, because it’s all he manages at this moment. He still feels slightly dizzy, perhaps a little sick, overwhelmed and too much at all to properly specify.

 

“André is coming too,” Mario adds. “Because of tomorrow,” then he pauses. “Wait, you have no idea who’s playing tomorrow, have you?”

 

Marco shakes his head, spins his coffee cup in his hands and watches on as the dark liquid trembles. “Haven’t exactly followed football lately.”

 

There is a hint of smile in Mario’s eyes, but it doesn’t make it to his lips, and maybe Marco is imagining it after all. “I figured. Well. It’s Arsenal against Barcelona tonight. Juventus is playing Leverkusen tomorrow, which is why André is here.”

 

Right, Marco remembers André mentioning that he was going to take up some position for the club when they’d talked last, which was a while ago. “Fine by me.”

 

“Are you sure? I can tell them that –”

 

“Mario,” he tells him. “It’s fine. I’m not a crazy hermit.” Although he has certainly acted like one lately, but he’s sure Mario is aware of that.

 

“Okay,” Mario says after a beat. “Just thought I’d run it by you.”

 

He goes off then, Marco assumes to have a shower, then putters around in his office once he’s done, so Marco grabs a book and starts reading, continues despite not a single word actually reaching his brain, and the entire day passes in a relaxed but paradoxically tense atmosphere, everything that’s been said hovering between them, waiting to finally be resolved. Marco’s brain keeps churning and he doubts he’s ever been this clueless in his life, this torn and undecided and yet so – clear.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_Marco played his last football match for the National Team on a mild summer day in July. He assisted two goals and scored one himself; a staggering freekick that was reminiscent of the height of his career. Marco played ninety-five minutes. He didn’t cry, because although he could admit to a fair shred of sadness gripping his bones and a decent amount of unease regarding the fact that he had no idea what was lying ahead – he was relieved._

_After the match was wrapped up and Marco was still distracted by keeping everything bottled up, he glanced up and saw Mario at the other end of the changing room, looking at him. His eyes were red and he seemed –_

_Marco didn’t allow himself to stall on that thought. He quickly dropped his gaze again, perfectly aware that this might have been the moment, that this should have probably been the moment to salvage all and a heavy weight joined all that he kept to himself these days and it took Marco a while to accept that he’d been given a chance, and that he’d blown it quite spectacularly._

_So he did the only thing that made sense to him. He tried to forget about it. And when it didn’t work, he cut himself out of his previous life, detached himself from everything that reminded him of what had been, and left without throwing another glance over his shoulder._

***

 

 

Marco thinks André comes close to shattering his spine when he hugs him before Marco has the slightest chance to utter a greeting. He gets a mouthful of cotton and almost slips on a pair of Mario’s shoes in the entranceway as he stumbles backwards. He can see a blurred version of Mario over André’s shoulder, smiling widely and André is saying something, but he can’t understand a word. His eardrums might’ve blown out on the impact.

 

“I think you’re killing me,” he chokes out just before André releases him, grinning like a madman.

 

“Oh, don’t be a pussy,” André tells him, which – okay. Chelsea spoiled his character, Marco still insists on that. “God, I haven’t seen you since fucking forever, you disloyal twat. If I’d known that Mario is still your Achilles’ heel, I would’ve baited you with him ages ago.” He slaps Marco’s shoulder, still smiling, eyes bright and happy and yeah, Marco realises he’s got the right to call him a twat, but he sincerely hopes he isn’t blushing, because now that he thinks about it, it is very telling that he only stopped running once Mario told him to – and André is most likely already drawing his conclusion.

 

“It’s not –,” both he and Mario start at the same time, of course, making André raise his brows in amusement.

 

“Don’t break anything,” André says, pats Marco on the back before sauntering past him into the living area and towards the fridge; like he’s been here so many times that he’s perfectly comfortable to treat it like his own home. And Marco guesses that may very well be the case, he doesn’t know for sure. André and Mario became friends through him, in a way, but that doesn’t have to mean they stopped when Marco stepped out of their respective lives. “It’s cool.”

 

Marco feels a jolt of electricity when Mario brushes past him, following Andrés, asking, “What’s cool?”

 

André, who doesn’t look a bloody day older than perhaps thirty (Marco has no idea how he managed that, perhaps a lot of face cream, or really good genes), turns around with a beer in one hand and shuts the fridge, then motions at them with his free arm. “You guys? Back together?”

 

For a moment, Marco fears he just swallowed his own tongue. He freezes and sees Mario do the same, but instead of answering André straight away, he glances over his shoulder at Marco, waiting for him to confirm or deny something that they haven’t actually talked about yet. It’s out there, somewhere and somehow, waiting for them to grab it, make it real – but Marco doesn’t know. He simply doesn’t know and he guesses it shows on his face, because Mario turns his attention back on André.

 

“We’re not,” Mario says simply, but there’s an odd tone to his voice and Marco’s brain, as unhelpful as ever, provides him with a silent _yet_.

 

He doesn’t exactly expect André to say much in response, but the quiet “okay” comes as a surprise nonetheless. André, still appearing perfectly content, just shrugs again and heads towards the nearest armchair. “Once you do, I totally called it,” he adds nonchalantly and sits.

 

Marco is still rendered speechless, somehow, and then the doorbell starts ringing again, breaking the off-kilter atmosphere as Mario hurries back to the front door. He considers joining André for a second, to talk to him, maybe, but people start piling into the living room. Not many, four in fact, but it’s still a small crowd and not what Marco is used to anymore. And the fact that these are people he knows, at least in some way, has played against on occasion – it just makes the entire situation a tad surreal. Javier Pastore, Isco, and two Italians, Paolo and Lorenzo. If they’re all surprised that he’s here, they don’t show it other than a slight twitch in their eyebrows. Hands are shaken without a fuss and Marco is glad they all fall into more or less accented English rather quickly, because the few snippets he catches of Mario speaking Italian – well.

 

The TV is switched on and conversation quickly turns to the matches this day and the following and Marco can’t contribute much, since he hasn’t paid attention, but he is impartial anyway. He wants Mönchengladbach to do well, but he’s supported Dortmund and just Dortmund all his life and that hasn’t changed. But when the match starts between Arsenal and Barcelona, Marco detects that it’s just as bloody brilliant as it’s always been. Barcelona without Xavi, without Messi or Puyol or Iniesta or in fact any of the players that turned the club into a legend, is still mesmerizing and Arsenal utterly efficient and ruthless, but it feels odd still, because he still remembers how much Mesut had loved it, and Lukas and Per.

 

The first half ends without any goals and before Marco can do or say much, André motions for him to follow him out onto the terrace, so he grabs his beer, throws a glance over his shoulder and finds Mario watching him already, and follows his friend out into the cool evening air. The light is caught between day and night, and in the almost grey dusk André suddenly looks older than before, looks his actual age, although that might very well be due to the sombre expression on his face.

 

“So,” Marco makes the start, allowing himself a healthy sip of beer.

 

“So,” André echoes.

 

“Why did you think –”

 

“That you and him were back together?” André interrupts him, cutting to the chase. “I hate to break it to you, my friend. But that’s what everyone in there is thinking. Probably including the guys in there.”

 

Out of reflex, he twists his neck to sneak a glance at said guys, making André laugh. “Chill, Marco. Do you honestly think they care? Or that they don’t know?”

 

“Know about –”

 

“About Mario batting for the other team,” André says, although Marco could have probably guessed that. Spending as much time at a club as Mario spent at Juventus, things just become apparent one way or the other. Shit, maybe there have been boyfriends Marco doesn’t know about (and he honestly does not want to know about any of that). “About you guys being an item. Oh fuck it, you guys were an institution. And when Mario mentioned you were staying here I just –”

 

He breaks off and empties his beer. For a moment, Marco can do nothing but stare at him. “You just what?” he asks and André lifts one shoulder, drops it again, purses his lips before chewing on them.

 

“Okay, don’t laugh at me mate. But… You just weren’t supposed to break up. Because it’s always been him and you, you know? Fucking made for each other and bumpy road and all; I get that. I get that it was difficult and weirdly enough I even understand why you accidentally called it quits and why you were so angry with him.” He sighs. “I just always felt like, somehow, you and Mario would get your shit together again.”

 

Marco has to swallow down a lump the size of a bloody football before he can speak. “I guess I thought so too,” he admits quietly.

 

“Why didn’t you?”

 

It’s a valid question, but suddenly, Marco doesn’t have an answer anymore. Because he’s been rejected and hurt and left alone, yet it seems to pale in comparison what he’s put himself through just in order to – to what? Make a point? Have the final word, or be right about who fucking cares what?

 

“Do you think I’m a coward?”

 

André directs a friendly punch to his arm. “Of course not, idiot. I know you’ve been through hell, but I think you got to stop thinking that life is only going to give you crap. Or the people in it. Shit happens. Let it go.”

 

“I don’t know if I can.”

 

“Bullshit,” André says. “Just try. What’s the worst that could happen?” He slings an arm around Marco’s shoulders and gives him a squeeze and Marco feels so fucking grateful that André is here. “You can spend the rest of your life being miserable, or you can move on. Forgiveness is cleansing, or so I’ve heard. I don’t really hold grudges.”

 

Marco wants to smile, but finds that he can’t quite move his lips, or any part of his body for that matter. Now it’s not just thoughts in his head, but someone actually telling him. But then, André is not just someone; he knows him and he knows Mario and their relationship and he was there when all went to hell and stuck with Marco through everything and Marco is aware that people were and apparently still are invested in what was once _them_. Mario’s brother still treating him like part of the family, his mother perhaps unknowingly telling him what she’s read about Mario, or even that she’d been on the phone to his mother, and Mario’s former teammates not even surprised at his presence. Marco guesses André isn’t the only one who’s been waiting for something to happen. And he realises he’s probably one of them too.

 

They remain quiet after that and Marco only registers sound when the terrace door slides open and Mario pokes his head outside, announcing the start of the second half. André goes back inside first, Mario holding the door open for him, but he angles his body when Marco is about to brush past. Marco sends him a questioning gaze.

 

“What?”

 

Mario draws his eyebrows together, lowers his voice. “Everything all right?”

 

“Yeah,” Marco replies. “Why?”

 

Mario shrugs. “Just asking,” he says, but Marco knows he looks like shit, that his inner turmoil is probably evident in his face and that Mario is perfectly capable of reading him. But this isn’t the time to go into detail; they both know that.

 

Marco re-joins André on one of the sofas just as the whistle blows and the players are off again, but Marco can’t get back into the game. Usually quiet thoughts are now stirred up and he feels restless, fiddles with a hole in his jeans, a loose thread from his shirt, eyes flickering between the screen and Mario on the opposite sofa, one leg drawn close, bobbing his left foot. A unified noise of appreciation echoes through the room and only then does Marco notice that Barcelona just scored. 1-0 up at the Emirates.

 

“Oh crap,” André exclaims and Marco whips his head around.

 

“Since when do you root for Arsenal? You played for _Chelsea_.”

 

“I have my reasons,” André explains, eyes still on the game. “I think Arsenal would be an easier opponent for Leverkusen in the final.”

 

“You think Leverkusen is going to win tomorrow?” Mario weighs in.

 

“Not likely,” Paolo says. “Not in Torino.”

 

“No chance,” they all say in unison and André looks at Marco for help, but Marco only shakes his head, feels the corners of his mouth twitch.

 

“Honestly, I don’t care who wins, as long as it’s not Schalke.”

 

At that, Mario throws his head back and laughs so soundly that he momentarily drowns out the noise from the TV. Marco can’t help but look at his exposed throat and remember that he’s had his lips on it just recently, which is surreal in itself, and that he wants to taste Mario’s skin again, soon if not now, better not now, because there is still… fifteen minutes until the match is over. And there are still five other people in the room.

 

“You can take the boy out of the _Pott_ , but you can’t take the _Pott_ out of the boy, huh?” Mario smiles, eyes shining. “Kevin would be proud.”

 

Reluctantly, they turn their attention back to the TV, where Arsenal is gaining more and more ground, pounding pressure on Barcelona; one defender out for another striker and it pays off one minute into extra time. The goal is a beauty, perfectly executed, slicing the defence open to slip the ball right through the goalkeeper’s legs. They have another round of beers after that and it’s around midnight, Marco assumes, when everyone starts moving towards the front door.

 

“You’re coming to the match tomorrow?” Paolo asks as he shrugs on his jackets, glancing at both Mario and Marco. “Andrea told you, no? He has a box.”

 

“We’ll think about it,” Mario replies instantly, before Marco can even as much as blink. “I’ll let you know, though.”

 

“Sure,” his former teammate says. “Ciao.” Then they pile into two cars, gravel groaning as they leave the by now dark driveway.

 

André hangs back, draws Mario into a tight hug before moving onto Marco, wrapping his arms around his shoulder as well. “I’m counting on your support tomorrow, okay?” he says with a smile, then he winks, because apparently, he’s still twelve years old and suddenly, he finds himself alone with Mario in the dimly lit hallway, the silence echoing around them, the tension still present and tangible. Marco fights the urge to audibly clear his throat. His voice would most likely fail him anyway.

 

Mario is looking at him with an indefinable expression and Marco feels the tiny hairs on his neck starting to stand on end and he almost accidentally holds his breath, just catches himself, tries to stay without really knowing why he feels so restless – but no. He knows why he is feeling this and he knows exactly what is going on and why. All he needs to do now is acknowledge it and get the fuck over his own stupid inhibitions.

 

Somehow they’re back in the living room without Marco having registered even moving his legs, but there they are. Mario collects the remaining beer bottles that are scattered around the living room table and Marco watches quietly and with shallow breath how he places them on the kitchen counter, glass hitting marble with a clank, spinning them until the label is facing him and he realises, after a few moments, that Mario is stalling time, that there is a tense line to his should and a nervous twitch gripping his fingers.

 

Of course Mario is nervous, Marco figures, and probably feeling as insecure as he’d sometimes felt earlier in their relationship, unsure how fast and how far they were supposed to go and it has been such a rollercoaster ride so far, such a tiring back and forth and Marco knows he’s put him through the grinder, and Mario definitely didn’t delve into this endeavour expecting it to be a walk in the park. It’s still not easy.

 

But then again, easy has never really been in their repertoire.

 

Before he has time to talk himself out of it, his feet carry him across the kitchen. Marco fits his body against Mario’s back, feels him flinch and then stiffen, hands gripping the edge of the counter tightly. Leaning his forehead to the back of Mario’s head, Marco takes a deep breath, smells so overwhelmingly familiar that they tighten his throat as he tries to swallow down the lump that’s been sitting in his throat all evening. His muscles feel unsteady when he slides his hands down Mario’s arms and lets them rest on top of his white-knuckled fingers. Concentrating on his breathing, he waits for Mario to exhale and relax against him and even this already feels to good to give up.

 

“What did André say to you?” When Marco doesn’t answer after a short while, Mario continues with a rushed voice. “I mean, we don’t need to talk –”

 

“No,” Marco cuts him off, suddenly strangely determined and – and he knows what he has to do. “That was actually our only problem, the entire fucking time. If we’d just _talked_ , about everything, from the beginning, it wouldn’t have,” and he can’t finish it, can’t say _it wouldn’t have ended that way_ , because perhaps it never did end, although they had both very much assumed so. “It doesn’t matter. I just… I don’t want either of us to be miserable,” he says, remembering André’s words, “just because we were somehow too bloody stupid to talk things through. Because even if we’ve cleared everything else up and even if we’d manage to move on, I still – I just need to know what you want. You need to tell me what you want, because God knows I can’t do this again.”

 

Mario loosens his hands enough so that he can intertwine their fingers and it makes Marco feel immensely better already. He can hear Mario take a handful of deep, presumably calming breaths before he speaks with a surprisingly firm voice.

 

“I want everything,” he says and Marco could swear that his heart jumps so high it hits his collarbone. “I did then, too. And I thought you knew, although I never told you. I took it for granted, just assumed it’d all work out because –”

 

“There was no way it wouldn’t, yeah,” Marco says against the skin on Mario’s neck. “I guess we were both stupid.”

 

Mario huffs out a laugh. “Definitely.” His hands tighten around Marco’s. “Young and stupid and in love.”

 

His heart stutters. “I’m not young anymore,” he says, dragging his nose up the last inches of Mario’s spine until it hits his hairline.

 

“And I hope I stopped being stupid.”

 

A silent beat passes. Marco can hear his own heartbeat ricocheting in his chest and Mario is sure to feel it hammering against his back. Slowly, reluctantly, Marco lets go of Mario’s hands and Mario turns around to face him. The soft jersey of his t-shirt wraps tightly around his shoulders and his collarbones are prominent, creating an almost perfect and irresistible juncture with the curved line of his neck and Marco wants to sink his teeth into it. He sees no reason why he shouldn’t do just that.

 

Mario’s gasp is achingly familiar in his ears and _God_ , Marco hasn’t heard it for so long, hasn’t made Mario let out that noise and a great part of him wants to leave a mark already, make it count, make Mario (and mostly himself) forget that others have come in between then and now. Fingers dig into his upper arms, painfully hard, but the resulting burn only makes him crowd Mario against the counter, trapping him between his arms before he slides his left hand up Mario’s arm, over his shoulder. He lets it come to rest just below his jaw, swipes his thumb over short stubble. When Marco pulls away eventually and lifts his gaze, Mario’s eyes are glassy and his lips parted and Marco doesn’t hesitate a single second before crushing their mouths together desperately, affirming him that he wants everything, too.

 

Mario’s hands have fallen to his waist, first tugging at his shirt, then rather quickly finding the button of Marco’s jeans. They part when Marco’s breath hitches and he can’t but stare down between them, at Mario’s fingers making slow but determined work of his zipper. A flash of hesitation curses through him despite the painful want, despite their lips already brushing together again, because this is – this _means_ something.

 

Sensing the small crack in his courage, Mario pushes him away by his hip, cheeks red but expression determined, and with a decided movement pulls his shirt over his head and drops it onto the kitchen tiles, leaving Marco with a dry throat and short breath. He opens the button on his jeans and unzips the fly. He is about to peel them down his legs when Marco snaps back into action; can’t just not touch and Mario tugs and pulls on his shirt until Marco puts a few inches between them to take it off and throw it over his shoulder.

 

The sensation of skin to skin is so overwhelming Marco fears he is going to black out for more than just a second, feeling dizzy with desire, feeling almost sick thinking about the fucking years and missing out and things unsaid and it’s no use to think about it anymore, yet Marco can’t help it. He can’t help but be so damn angry with himself and with circumstances and life that his eyes start to burn and he finds it hard to swallow let alone breathe as he presses his face into the crook of Mario’s neck.

 

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he exhales against heated skin and Mario’s arms tighten around his bare waist simultaneously, as if they were holding on for dear life and part of Marco guesses that may as well be true.

 

He kisses Mario again, because he can and because he wants to and when they separate with a sigh, Mario presses, “Come to bed with me” against the corner of his mouth.

 

And there is no reason why he shouldn’t do that either.

 

Feeling heady and slightly unsteady on his feet, Marco lets Mario lead him across the room and up the stairs, opened jeans riding low on his hips so that Marco can see the elastic waistband of his underwear. The stairs creak quietly beneath their tense but paradoxically unhurried steps and so does the parquet in the hallway as they move past the guest bedroom Marco has been sleeping in. Belatedly, Marco realises that he hasn’t been to Mario’s bedroom and before he enters, he tries to imagine what it could look like, if it’s in any way similar to the room he had at his parents’ house, or in Munich, or if it looks entirely unrelated to either. They’ve shared bedrooms, they used to spend a lot of time in Marco’s during their time at Dortmund, but they’ve never really lived together.

 

When Mario pulls him across the threshold, however, Marco is hit by a wave of fondness, because – because this is what it would have looked like, he guesses, if they had ever moved in together. The smallest details now cause him to swallow. The bed is quite central, foot facing the door, and Marco had always told Mario that he can’t sleep facing away from it. An old armchair in one corner, empty except for a single cushion, since Marco had always been the one to toss his things over chairs and anything in his vicinity. So many pillows on the bed and only one massive duvet, because they’d always shared. A few mismatching carpets because of Mario’s cold feet.

 

“Everything okay?”

 

Marco snaps out of it. Mario has turned to face him and he looks so fucking beautiful in the dark, with warm light spilling over his body from the lit hallway, and Marco has no idea how he is supposed to function anymore. Suddenly, he feels overwhelmed, standing in the middle of a space that looks like _theirs_ in spite of him never having been in it before and suddenly, he wants to know what went through Mario’s mind as he moved into this house, wants to know what he’d looked like painting the walls or unpacking boxes and when he sees that damn IKEA shelf in one corner, the one they’d assembled together in the middle of the night in Munich when it’d been so hot that Marco hadn’t been any use at all, distracted by the way Mario’s t-shirt had stuck to his chest – he feels like crying.

 

Nothing is okay, not really, but Marco is finally starting to feel like it’s going to be. Instead of answering though, he tugs Mario closer, thumbs settling right below his collarbones, and Mario tilts his head up to kiss him. Marco sighs into it, feels Mario’s back muscles twitch beneath his fingertips as he sneaks his arms around his waist. It’s slow-paced, but Marco senses the urgency behind it all when Mario pushes back all of a sudden, backs away until the back of his legs hit his bed; then he shimmies out of his jeans and underwear.

 

Marco can practically see the rapid tattoo of Mario’s heartbeat in his chest, the flutter of his throat as he swallows and Marco guesses they’re both freaking out quietly, not quite visible on the outside but nonetheless frightening, maddeningly so, but it’s the good kind, the anxious anticipation before something is about to happen. And it is happening, it’s happening now, because Marco has left all hesitation at the threshold and he wants this so much, desire curling hot in his belly. He isn’t as quick in shedding his jeans and briefs, but Mario doesn’t show a sign of impatience, stays frozen to the spot and watches Marco approach once he’s stepped out of them. Only when they’re inches apart does Mario move, sitting down and sliding back across the sheets, coming to rest on his elbows and Marco follows seamlessly, needing no urging on, so fucking desperate to touch and rediscover and reclaim until they’re both ready to crawl out of their skin.

 

The slide of bare skin on bare skin almost blinds Marco momentarily and the thing that probably scares him most in this moment is that Mario’s gasp still sounds the same in his ears; Mario feels the same and he smells the same and he still runs tentative fingers through Marco’s hair and he still lets them come to rest at the small of his back, begging him to start moving, and when Marco does, he loses all sense of time and space, finds himself unable to form coherent thoughts. Mario’s voice echoes in his ears, quiet whispers pressed into his skin, sharpened with teeth grazing on his jaw, nails digging into his arms and Marco moves.

 

The next hour passes in a medley of heady sensations and when they’re breaths are still mingled and quickened, tears prickling at the corners of Marco’s eyes, he knows that he’s never lived through a more intimate moment. Marco can’t express what exactly it is that runs through his mind at this point, and part of him wants to cry to perhaps show Mario a margin of it, but he can’t; can’t for even a fraction of a second avert his eyes from Mario’s, let alone more an inch away, despite already feeling soreness creepy through his body and the strain on his shoulders from bracketing Mario’s head with his arms.

 

This is it, Marco realises with sudden intensity. He’d started running, afraid to glance over his shoulder and having to face the chaos he’d left behind and equally afraid to look ahead and perhaps this isn’t where he started, but he guesses it was probably always meant to end here.

 

 

When Marco wakes up, he knows exactly where he is, still achingly familiar with the way Mario sleeps stretched across the mattress on his belly, cheek pressed to Marco’s chest. He lays there for a long while and watches the change of light on the ceiling as he cards his hand through Mario’s hair, waiting for any kind of panic to seize his body and force him to take to his heels. But nothing of that sort happens. He feels more calm and content than he has felt in the past decade and although there is still a level of uncertainty (considering that they have been very much shielded off until now) – Marco isn’t willing to give this up any time soon, or rather ever again.

 

He comes out of his trance when he feels eyes on him and lowering his gaze, he finds Mario calmly looking at him with tired eyes. There is a small smile playing around hi lips and his voice is wonderfully raspy when he speaks.

 

“Are you freaking out?”

 

Marco can’t but return his smile. “No,” he breathes, fingers still dragging over Mario’s skull. “No, I’m good.”

 

“Just good?” Mario asks, eyes blinking more awake and he shift his body until he’s fully on top of Marco.

 

Marco suppresses a gasp, tries to keep a straight face as he says, “well, there is certainly room for improvement.”

 

Mario laughs, and just like that, it’s perfectly normal.

 

 

 

Marco lets himself be talked into going to the match that evening, mainly because there was a lot of bare skin and he probably would have agreed to pretty much anything. Mario looks good in his black shirt and dark jeans, Marco observes as they enter the stadium through a private entry and head up to the box Mario’s former teammate had talked about one night ago (and Jesus, it already feels like a lifetime) and Marco knows he should pay more attention, be at least a little sociable when being introduced to someone like Andrea Pirlo and he is not that good at smalltalk, but he is not bad either. But he just can’t keep his eyes off Mario, needs to focus on keeping his hands to himself because it’s like a dam has been broken.

 

Yes, he’s missed football, he can admit as much, has missed the uproar and the atmosphere and everything about the game, but it pales in comparison to how much he’s missed Mario, really missed him and being with him. Mario talks him through the squads as they watch through the big panorama windows, points at certain players and by halftime Juventus are 2-0 up, and everyone is buzzing. Leverkusen manage to get one back in the second half, blowing the chances wide open again, but the scores remain so until the referee ends the match. By that time, they’re outside, lower arms resting on the railing separating the boxes from the stands and Mario is so close that Marco can feel the heat radiating from his body. Mario leans in, hand closing around Marco’s wrist and his lips brush Marco’s ear.

 

“We should get out of here.”

 

Marco couldn’t agree more. There are flashes down on the pitch and he knows there are always some pointed towards the boxes and he hadn’t paid attention to them until now, but – some things will probably never quite leave him. And considering what they look like…

 

“Yeah,” he replies quietly. “Lets.”

 

 

 

Much later when they’re entangled in the dark, limps still sweaty and heavy, Mario fitting perfectly against his chest, heartbeat strong and steady beneath Marco’s flat palm, that he actually voices what’s been going through his mind since they’d left the stadium after a quick round of goodbyes.

 

“There will be pictures,” he says, lips not quite lifting off of Mario’s neck.

 

Mario’s hand continues to trace patterns onto his thigh. “Probably, yeah.”

 

“If they ask you,” Marco starts after a brief moment of hesitation, “what are you going to tell them?” And there is no way Mario doesn’t understand. Marco’s hand presses down and Mario lifts his to lay it on top.

 

“What do you want me to tell them?” he asks after a couple of seconds.

 

Marco figures they both know the answer to that.

 

 

 

***

 

 

Epilogue

 

 

 

When you spend years travelling with nothing more than one backpack, Marco thinks it’s perfectly understandable to be slightly overwhelmed by the amount of boxes he is greeted with stepping into his parents’ attic. Hell, he can’t even remember packing that much when he’d cleared out his flat years ago. Sighing, he picks one box at random, opens it, dust whirling around his head and making his nose itch, and is greeted by a couple of paperbacks, two photo albums and some postcards tied together with a rubber band. He isn’t even sure if that stuff is really his.

 

He pulls out one of the albums, because he’s curious, sue him, wipes a hand across the cover and opens a random page in the middle. Marco starts, almost has to do a double take and then just stares, because he can’t help it. Now he is pretty sure that he hadn’t packed this box, not when he’d given up his flat nor during one of his visits.

 

He doesn’t turn around when he hears approaching steps, old floorboards creaking loudly, and he doesn’t startle when a warm hand curls around his shoulder.

 

“What’re you looking at?”

 

Marco angles his body so that Mario can look over his shoulder. There is a smile in his voice when he speaks, evident despite the teasing tone. “Turning into a sap in your old days? Didn’t think you’d have kept that.”

 

“I didn’t keep it,” Marco replies, eyes still glued to the photograph that shows himself and Mario when they were, _God_ , still so fucking young, a year or so into their relationship he thinks, probably taken by one of Mario’s brothers, because Marco can recognise the furniture, vaguely recalls a birthday party, and Mario being so tired that he’d nodded off on Marco’s shoulder. And he used to keep photographs of them, not in albums but in an old Puma shoebox. He isn’t surprised because he doesn’t recognise the picture; he is surprised because he’d tossed said shoebox into a garbage bag full of things that had reminded him of Mario. His mum had been over and she must’ve – “I threw them away,” he tells Mario. “I guess my mum rescued them.”

 

Arms sneak around his waist and Mario moulds himself against Marco’s back. “I’m glad she didn’t,” he says. “Would’ve been a shame.”

 

Marco hums his agreement, making a mental note to thank his mother later and turns around in Mario’s embrace, smiling down on him. “It would’ve,” he replies and drops a kiss to Mario’s lips. Before he can deepen it (because God knows he wants to), they get company.

 

“Hey, no snogging with me in the room,” André calls out, shuffling around the scattered boxes, peeking into every corner. “Is that a didgeridoo? Man, you have a lot of stuff.”

 

There is a crash and a whirlwind of dust and Marco has to let go of Mario to stop André from wreaking havoc. “You volunteered,” he says, steadying a pile of cardboard boxes.

 

“Yes, to pack a van and drive your stuff to Italy,” André answers with a quirked eyebrow. “Not to witness the resurgence of your horny teenage years.”

 

Marco turns back around in time to see Mario roll his eyes with a smile and his own lips twitch until his cheeks ache. They shuffle around, try out how much they can carry without dropping things, decide to leave a couple of things behind (Mario vetoes the didgeridoo) and by the time they’ve made visible progress, it’s almost noon. Originally, the plan was to leave around about now, but Marco knows his mother well enough to predict that she will not let them go without a proper lunch.

 

“Lets move it lads,” André exclaims, hidden behind two boxes, plastic bags dangling of his wrists; he looks close to collapsing. “I was promised Barolo and pasta and the best spot on Mario’s terrace.” With that he stumbles down the steep stairs, expecting Mario and Marco to follow and they do, both carrying heavy bags that make Marco’s arms ache. Nevertheless, he leans into Mario’s space, brushes their noses together until he feels Mario smile.

 

“Ready to go?” Mario asks, breath ghosting over Marco’s lips.

 

“Ready,” Marco says. God, he is ready.

****


End file.
